Fifth Floor WalkUp
by crimepays
Summary: AU. Santana is a police officer in New York City. Rachel moves into her building.
1. Chapter 1

**Fifth Floor Walk-Up**

"Melted Chocolate. Autumn Afternoon."

...

I've been suffocating on sterile pea-green walls for the past two days. I'm not completely sure why, but the nurse lets me sit here noon and night, clenching haplessly at her hand, staring out the sixth floor window. I'm pretty sure I'm going to lose my job, but I can't tear myself from this metal chair, this drab room. It's safe in its closed walls. It's comfortable in its uneasiness. It's everything she's ever given me, messily wrapped up with a colorless bow.

A gull perches on the windowsill, observing our tragedy. Am I playing this role properly? I've disconnected and I can't step back into character. The tears won't come. The cries of agony have disappeared. What do I do now?

My gaze fixes on her face. Strong jaw. High cheekbones so often flushed - in anger, in passion, in shame. Long lashes conceal what I covet most, what I fear I'll never have again.

I'll never forget the first time I saw those eyes.

...

After two years of playing housewife to Kurt, he chose to take the role of housewife with Blaine. Blaine had just accepted a promotion at his hoity-toity Wall Street investment banker something something firm. He usually threw around a whole slew of fancy finance words when he talked about his job, but I'd tune him out and turn back to Broadway gossip with Kurt. They'd found a beautiful loft in Chelsea and one less bedroom than our previous abode. And thus, that's how I stumbled upon my fifth floor walk-up.

I wanted so badly to be happy for him, but all I could think about was the fifth floor walk-up in Brooklyn, a twenty-minute ride on the L from our shared East Village two-bedroom. The fifth floor walk-up with one stiflingly hot room, knotty wooden floors, and a fire escape just outside my new bedroom window that would quickly grow to haunt me.

It wasn't all misery, moving to my own place. Like any other role, I looked forward to playing grown-up Rachel Berry. I could dig my gaudy, bedazzled microphone and stand out of storage (the one Kurt hated because it was too 'queeny.') My Barbra portraits could finally hang over the mantle where they belonged.

In a moment of empathy, Kurt agreed to help move me in. Naturally, I requested Blaine's assistance as well. While Kurt and I were born leaders, replete with a healthy vision of the future, we were not versed in manual labor.

"Blaine, you have to pick it up. We've already nicked one wall."

"Blaine, I think if you just tilt it to the right slightly the passage will be easier to maneuver."

"Blaine, adjust it about ten degrees to the left. There. There. No stop. Back five degrees."

"Blaine, can you lift it from the base? I know that the mirror is unsteady, but its weight is in the base. Just give it a try."

A year since moving in, I can't believe, looking back, that Blaine put up with us for so long. Our voices blended together in a nasal timbre like Elena Roger in the revival of "Evita." But, I didn't long to dwell on the perfect angle of furniture going up and down the staircase.

I could feel her presence before I saw her face. Though, to be honest, I was completely unaware of how long her "presence" had been glaring at me from behind. Kurt, Blaine, and I had been collaborating to move my vanity through the narrow stairwell. Given what I know about her disposition now, she may not have actually been standing behind me for that long, but at the time, when she opened her mouth, I thought she'd been standing back there for nearly twenty minutes.

"S'cuse me." Her voice was used and harried.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you live here?" Before my eyes landed on her face, my hand shot out in greeting. I can almost see myself standing in that tight first-floor entrance way. Sweat matting my bangs to my face, but each hair neatly in place behind my red headband. I remember I'd forgone my favorite knee socks in the sticky August heat.

Blue slacks brushed against shiny black boots. A long, dark blue stripe guided my eyes to her starched blue shirt, metallic embellishments catching the waning sunlight. My eyes caught on the cold black metal of a gun at her side.

"Yeah." Her eyes squinted but she swallowed me whole. For the first time in the history of Rachel Berry, I became unglued. (I always wanted to glamorize her eyes later - "They're like melted chocolate, or like an autumn afternoon." And she'd smirk and tease me, "Don't say things like that Rach, I'll lose my street cred.")

She continued to look at me sidelong, sizing me up. "Yeah I live here. I guess you're my new neighbor – the studio on the fifth floor? Look, I need to get some sleep."

My hand hung in the air and my jaw hung open. I didn't even have time to process that the sun hadn't even set yet.

Blaine, mouth slightly ajar at my undoing, snapped to. "Sorry, let me just move this out of your way."

"Looks like you need a hand. Let me grab this side for you."

Kurt cleared his throat and raised a pale finger, "Just, um, watch out for the walls."

Strong, tanned forearms flexed and glistened in the late August heat as she hoisted the furniture in the steamy stairwell. I picked up the duffel bag she'd tossed on the landing. Its edges were rough and frayed and it smelled faintly of sweat mixed with a scent I  
would become all too familiar with the more I spent time with her.

As I followed her tentatively up the stairs, despite the bulk of her uniform shirt, I could almost feel the ripple of her deltoids. Her jet-black ponytail swayed with effort. Kurt continued to call directions from just behind me. On the other hand, my healthy vision of the future had disappeared in favor of comprehending the healthy vision directly in front of me. I watched as beads of sweat pooled in the crook of her arm.

With the vanity firmly in place on the top landing, my voice found itself once again.

"Thank you so much. I'm Rachel Berry, your new neighbor." Apprehensively, I extended my hand again.

"Yeah, got it. No problem. I'll just take my bag, thanks." Her hand skipped my welcome and clenched onto the duffel. Before I could find her eyes, her back was to me, then her front door. My eyes and heart sunk to the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Fifth Floor Walk-Up**

"Soothe Me"

...

At this moment, I can't trace the pads of my fingertips over her high cheekbones, to the tip of her nose and up the bridge. My fingers can't soothe her brows and massage her scalp. But that night, the night that haunts me still, she did that for me. I have wanted to do the same for the past three days. On the first day that I couldn't touch her face, I heaved and wretched, tearing myself away and into the bathroom just in time. On the second day, tears so furiously poured onto the flat white sheets of the hospital bed that when my strength gave and I fell asleep, I dreamed of a thrashing, thunderous sea. Today. Today, I must sit on my hands to physically restrain myself. I cannot soothe the face that soothed me.

Though it pains me and some days I wish I could, I'll never forget the first time she soothed me.

…

I craved the opportunity to see those eyes again. Waking up in the morning, I'd find my feet lurching me toward the peephole to discretely spy on her front door. Labored breaths ricocheted off the wooden door and into my nasal cavity, but even inhaling my own stale morning breath couldn't tear me away from the urge to just see her one more time.

My own routine had been thrown off by my desire to see her. 6 am wake-up. Nothing. 6:30 am. Nothing. 7. No. 8. No. Surely police officers had regular working hours, even if they were from 7pm to 6 am. As my own impending work routine drew nearer, my heart began to cave in worry that I'd never be able to figure hers. I was set to begin rehearsals for my first off-Broadway role in less than a week.

And, while a certain number of butterflies could be attributed to my imminent rise to fame, instead a significant percentage of the time that I should have been memorizing my lines I found myself drowning in the ever-so-brief memory of her eyes.

_Bang_

The door shut across the hall. I jumped to my bare feet and sprinted across knotty wood toward the door. Pages of script fluttered in all directions. My sweaty hands desperately pulled at the knob, flew to the lock and twisted, jingled, twisted to unlock the deadbolt. Breathless, I poked my head into the hallway. Nothing. I bounded down five flights of splintered stairs, careless of my bare feet, and onto the street. Nothing. Well, dog walkers and an odd jogger or two and a newspaper delivery truck. But, nothing.

Slowly, I ascended the steps.

That "routine" carried on through the week. On the night before the start of rehearsals, I caught the back of her head before her door shut. A little after midnight.

On my way out the door in the morning, my heart fluttered as I took a brief glance at her entryway. And then, for more than twelve hours, I completely forgot about her, as my mind filled with lyrics and notes to hit, stage directions and voice inflection.

I swear it wasn't planned. My mind had completely forgotten about her until I rose above ground from that Brooklyn subway station. I checked my watch: just before midnight. My short legs took the steps two at a time, then slowed, wondering if I'd missed her or not yet seen her at all. As I reached the landing of the fifth floor, I looked between her door and my own. My heart deflated.

Pushing open the creaking door, the oxygen escaped my lungs. Glass shards on the floor. My favorite Barbra picture, shattered, lay face-down on the knotty wood. TV missing. My microphone, a childhood gift from my grandmother and fellow Liza fan, gone. I took a step forward to survey the damage. The curtains of the fire escape window uneasily blowing in the hot autumn night.

This person could still be here. Suddenly my thoughts jumbled in my head and pushed me back out the door. I was screaming. I was banging on a door. My purse was upright on the floor. My phone was out of reach. My legs crumpled beneath me. Instead of being my own actor, I was watching a tragic scene unfold in front - starring me.

Strong arms are pulling at me, dragging me, lifting me. I cry for my phone. Brown eyes look deeply into my own. I want so badly to remember where I know those eyes from. Those beautiful, mysterious eyes. I know I've been searching for them.

Dark.

I've lost them.

Rachel. Rachel. _Rachel_.

As I awoke, I felt back in place. Except out of place. My body was wrapped in a dark blue blanket with a mean bulldog across the front. In the August heat, my back stuck to the leather material of an unknown couch. A cluster of empty beer bottles, a whiskey bottle, and a jumble of unopened mail sat on the hutch behind the couch.

"Rachel."

I turned into those brown eyes. I thought I'd been dreaming. Or maybe it was a nightmare.

"Rachel, how are you feeling?" She was kneeling next to me, a navy NYPD t-shirt fit tightly over her physique, worn gray sweatpants on the bottom. Her hand clenched at mine. A sweaty thumb ran back and forth under my palm.

I struggled to find my voice. "What?" My voice choked out before hoarsely shutting down.

"Someone broke into your apartment. The police are here. You were in the hallway and I came and got you." The angry squint I'd seen a couple of weeks prior had dissolved into softness.

I felt tears well in my eyes, then burst free, sprinting down my cheeks. "Am I ok?" I could feel my mouth doing that awful twisting thing it does when I cry, but I couldn't restrain myself.

Calloused fingertips broke from my hand and rescued my face, gently wiping tears to the side, then softly stroking my brows and pushing an errant strand of hair behind my ear. "You'll be just fine with me." Her voice was gentler than I ever imagined. It fell to a whisper. "Do you want me to call someone?"

My heart began to race again. This felt like the twilight zone - strange place, strange person, strange feelings. I had wanted so badly to meet my beautiful neighbor again and now that I was in her house, her voice caressing my cheek, I wanted nothing more to be amongst the familiar. I nodded.

"Sergeant Lopez." I sat up to see a young man in full uniform in the threshold. Her hands left my face as she stood to quietly address the man in the doorway. Her jaw jutted out and the hardened look returned to her face. In the moment that it took to return to my side, that look had disappeared once again.

The phone that I last remembered sprawled on the ground, was again safely in my purse and at my side. I flipped it open and pressed Kurt's speed-dial number. His voice sleepily crackled through the phone and I felt my composure slip away once again.

"Kurt..." I choked out through tears, "Can you come over?"

He suddenly seemed wide awake.

"Someone broke into my apartment."  
Before we could finish the brief conversation, Kurt and Blaine were on a train and headed into Brooklyn. I ended the call and felt her eyes bore into me once again.

"Do you need anything?"

I wanted to be strong. I didn't want to need anything. But the tears kept falling from my eyes and my throat felt scratchy and dry. "Water."

She brought back a tall glass of water and set in on the table, then returned to the threshold and the uniformed police officer.

"Ms. Berry," her voice had hardened once again as she stood over me. "Officer O'Reilly needs to take a statement. If you cannot do it tonight, you can go into the station tomorrow. What would you like to do?"

I sat up to take a sip of water. "I can do it."

Given that I didn't know much, the questioning didn't take long. Officer O'Reilly informed me that the fire escape window appeared to have been the entry point but that there were no signs of forced entry. My own naivite throttled me into unrestrained tears. He left me with a business card and a promise to follow up in the morning.

"I'm sorry." I whispered as she sat down in the armchair near me. I didn't want to meet her eyes for fear the tears would return. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." I glanced over to study her. She leaned back drowsily in the armchair, a beer bottle dangling between her index finger and thumb. Her eyes were closed and she breathed deeply.

I took a moment more to learn her. Slightly thick, manicured brows. Strong jaw. Long lashes. High cheekbones with a slight flush. Her eyes opened and caught mine.

"What's your first name?" It clicked in that moment. I'd so eagerly introduced myself in our first meeting, but she'd kept quiet. I knew "Sergeant Lopez" from the officer, but that was it.

"Santana." With ease, she took a long pull from the beer bottle, emptying it then rose and pulled another from the refrigerator.

"Santana." I echoed quietly, feeling her name on my lips, my tongue, my teeth.

"Rachel?" Kurt's voice rang from the hallway. Santana, already standing, made her way to the door and opened it.

Without any pretense, Kurt rushed past her and to my side, hands in my hair, immediately stroking it and cooing. He pulled me into a tight hug. Over his shoulder, Blaine and Santana looked on.

I sent Kurt and Blaine to collect a few items from my apartment. My heart wrenched at the thought of setting foot inside. While they gathered my things, I stood and found Santana at the doorway.

She was slightly taller than me, but only just so. I looked up into her eyes and felt the tears come for the final time that night. "Thank you, Santana," I whispered. Her eyes met mine. I breathed in and in and in and couldn't catch my breath. Her eyes faded into the softness I'd first encountered that night as she wrapped her arms tightly around me. Strong biceps clenched against my sides. Her toned stomach grazed against me. Warm breath whispered against the top of my head, "Be safe."

As she pulled back, her thumb swept away a tear, then caressed my cheek. Soothing me. I closed my eyes. Soothing me. Reopening them, I found soft brown eyes again. Her face felt closer than before. Her breath sweeter. Her abdomen pushing stronger against me.

"Ready?" Blaine asked from my doorway.

She pulled back suddenly, eyes on the floor, then toward the ceiling as she drained her beer.

"Thank you, Santana, for taking care of Rachel." Kurt grabbed my hand.

"Goodnight, Santana. Thank you." I took one last glance at her, then felt myself being pulled down the stairs and away.

"Goodnight Rachel."


	3. Chapter 3

**Fifth Floor Walk-Up**

"My Saving Grace"

...

These days, I sometimes wonder if meeting her was more a curse than a salvation. Looking at her swollen, bandaged face, my first instinct is to let anger course through me. Today, though, I'll let my memories take me to the days when she was my saving grace.

...

Thanking her, really thanking her, wasn't easy. My words alone weren't enough, so those last few utterances whispered over my shoulder that night wouldn't suffice.

That weekend I returned to the apartment to clean up. During the week, with work and the fear of returning home, I couldn't manage to make my way back to Brooklyn. After almost a week of crashing with the boys, I feared more that I had overstayed my welcome.

Early Saturday morning, I collected my belongings, left a note, and slipped out the door and onto a near-empty train to Brooklyn. My heart thudded as I unlocked the door. Kurt had called a clean-up crew on Wednesday, after the investigation was complete, to take care of the shattered glass and general disarray. While my belongings were back in place, the apartment was somehow still out of place. Leaving the door wide open, I walked directly over to the window and mounted the windowsill to push down hard, securing the lock once again. If need be, I wanted the door open for an easy escape. I didn't want the deadbolt to be my undoing - trapping me in my nightmare.

"Hello?" The wind knocked out of me and I fell from the windowsill onto the hardwood floor. Footsteps caved in on me. Unfamiliar white tennis shoes, lean tanned legs, spandex shorts, a strong arm flexing toward me.

"Santana?" I looked up at her from the floor, playing the role of a damsel in distress. "You scared me."

"Your door was open. I was about to get my gun, but I saw your bag on the floor." The softness of her features from the previous night had disappeared.

"Oh. I just... I didn't... I can't explain it." I pushed myself off the floor. At eye-level, her face was flushed, a thin elastic headband held back stray strands of sweaty black hair that might have matted onto her face. Lean muscles flexed and rippled through her spandex at every move.

My mouth was dry and slightly ajar. I quickly snapped it shut and looked up into her eyes. "I need to repay you." It rushed out of my mouth all at once. My grace and tact had disappeared. I had been planning a better way of saying that. What was it again? I struggled inside my mind for a moment, attempting to recall the plan. I was supposed to leave a note on her door, not blurt it all out.

"Repay me for what?" Her brow wrinkled in confusion.

"For helping me. For saving me." I could feel my cheeks heating up. "Gosh darnit. I forgot what I wanted to say. It's just, if you hadn't been here, I don't know what I would have done. Saying thank you isn't enough. Please let me repay you in some way." I felt tears coming on but I couldn't figure out why. I so desperately wanted to connect, for her to say yes.

"Rachel, I'm a police officer, it's part of my job. You don't have to repay me." No connection. Tears blurred my vision. Sobs wracked through me. I found myself sitting pathetically on my bed, hands covering my face. I cried even harder when I thought about how often she'd seen me cry.

"No, no, don't cry." Her voice had softened again. I felt warm skin on my own, trailing from my forearm to my bicep and back. My eyes fluttered shut. "It's ok, you can repay me. Will that make it better?"

"I'm sorry," I said haltingly, as I heaved through the sobs. "It's something I just need to do because there's no other way for me to repay you. I'll never be able to save you like that."

Her voice shrunk to a whisper. "It's ok. I don't need saving." Her eyes met mine, soft again. "You can repay me."

Looking up at her from the bed, I was able to see her whole figure again. "Maybe I can start to repay you by taking your shopping for new workout clothes?" I smirked through the tears.

One eyebrow raised, then she smirked back at me. "Are you making fun of me?" She looked down at the spandex unitard and tennis shoes, then back into my eyes. "This is my rowing outfit. All rowers wear these."

"Even out on the street?" I reached a hand up and plucked at the flimsy material.

"I had a t-shirt on over top, but I was too sweaty. Maybe I won't let you repay me after all, if you're gonna make fun of me." Her bottom lip was between her teeth, fighting off a smile.

"Sorry. Sorry. I have no right to insult you. You row? Like the long boats that have a bunch of oars?"

"Yeah. Well I used to do the long boats with a bunch of oars - quad scull, actually. But I started single scull a few years ago. That means I just row the boat on my own."

"Oh. So that's where you get those muscles from." My face flushed. Seriously, what happened to my tact?

"Yeah I guess. I workout at the station gym, too." Her face was flushed, too, but I couldn't tell if was as a result of my sexual harassment or whether it remained from her workout.

I took a moment to fight off the redness in my face. She bounced nervously from toe to toe in front of me, surveying my room.

My voice was unsteady when it reached my ears. "Can I cook you dinner?"

"Tonight?" I wasn't sure, but her voice sounded unsteady as well.

"If you're free, yes. I know there are lots of bad guys that you need to catch."

There was a long pause. I looked away, unwilling to see her face when she turned me down.

"The bad guys aren't my responsibility tonight. Sure, let's do it. I'll be over at..."

"Eight?"

"Eight."

I looked down at my fingers, gripping and playing with each other, keeping the nerves at bay. "Do you have any dietary restrictions I should be aware of? I grew up in a kosher and vegan household, so I'm afraid you'll have to put up with that, but I'm happy to meet any of your needs."

Her mouth twisted up to the side in a half-smile. "No, Rachel. I'll eat whatever you put in front of me. You don't have to do this, you know?"

I met her eyes and nearly forgot what she was saying. "No. No, I do."

For the rest of the day, I was too busy to remember to fear the loneliness of my apartment. My heart pounded a mile a minute, my feet danced across the floor, and my hands busily searched for the next task. Soft, warm brown eyes rested on the backs of my eyelids every time I closed my eyes. In some moments, I found myself closing them on purpose to find her eyes looking back at me.

At six, I diced the vegetables for the stir-fry. My hands shook nervously.

At seven, I pulled on about nine different outfits, until I settled on a blue floral print dress with a yellow cardigan and red ballet flats.

At eight, a light knock echoed into my room.

I peered through the peephole to study her unabashedly for a moment. Her hair was pulled back into a slick ponytail, parted on the side. She wore a faded blue, collared men's shirt, arms rolled up to the elbow, showing off her toned forearms. My stomach sank and I felt a warmth roll through my body.

"Hi," my voice shook as I greeted her.

"Hi," her voice definitely shook, too. She had a bottle of wine and a bottle still encased in its brown paper grocery bag in her hand. She pushed the wine bottle into my hand. "I brought something for us to drink."

"Thank you. You look very nice."

"Thanks. You look...you look nice, too. I brought over some whiskey, too. Do you drink whiskey?" She was definitely nervous. Her eyes darted to the floor, then to my feet, to my eyes, and back to the floor. I wanted to reach over and run my hands up her arms, to whisper in her ear that there was no need to be nervous, but maybe I should have been more nervous myself.

"Never tried it. I'm usually more of a white wine spritzer kind of girl. Pour us some and we'll toast." I pulled two glasses from the cabinet and handed them to her. She poured a little more than a shot's worth and passed it to me. The smell burned my nostrils and churned my stomach. That smell will forever churn my stomach now, for many reasons.

"To..." Her hand shook as she raised the glass.

"To new friends." I looked into her eyes as we clinked glasses. She smiled for the first time that night. Her shoulders sank back and her eyes met mine.

Whiskey is not my drink of choice. Considering I drank "Peach Breez" wine coolers (no, no "e" on the Breeze") all the way through college, it didn't come as much of a surprise. I choked it back, sputtering and coughing as I inhaled. Tears welled in my eyes.

A throaty laugh reached my ears as she took down her own and poured another, this time just for herself.

But the whiskey did the trick for both of us. A warm fuzziness took over my senses. I was just a little more handsy, just a little more sultry, and maybe just a little more tactless. Santana appeared to have loosened as well. When not running up my legs and over my chest, her eyes met mine with that softness I'd quickly grown to adore. Her hands steadied, were confident even, in their movements. She poured two glasses of wine and grazed my fingers as she passed me a glass. Heat burst through my fingertips and straight through my stomach, then settled in for the night just below.

Dinner was a muted affair. Glasses clinking, soft voices, a crooked smile when our eyes met. I talked through most of the meal. The conversation started with vegan cuisine and ended with tales of my exploits with Kurt over the past two years.

She poured the final glass of wine for me and a post-dinner whiskey for herself and we retired to the couch. I flipped my ballet slippers off and, in one of my more tactless moments, pushed my feet into her lap.

She smiled and raised an eyebrow. A beautiful eyebrow. I never thought to describe eyebrows as beautiful before her. "I guess you're deserving of a foot rub, dinner was surprisingly good."

"'Surprisingly?' You didn't think I could cook?" I cracked a smile too as I looked up at her from the end of the couch. She had set her glass on the side table and used both hands on my right foot, rubbing deliciously. My eyelids drooped and the heat that had settled in earlier became more intense. "I did grow up with two gay dads. And my best friends are gay."

"Being gay means you can cook? Shit, I missed the boat." That settled that. She'd probably caused many a girl to feel those below-the-belt feelings I was struggling with now. Even straight, or semi-straight girls.

"Well, being a gay man, I guess, or...well no that's not right...the progeny of gay men," I fumbled. Truth be told, I was still wrapped up in her confession. I wondered if now was the time to confess my occasional leanings, as well.

"Gotcha." She broke eye contact to look at my feet. I was surprised at how intimately connected I felt at that moment, her fingers working my soles. I said a silent prayer thanking G-d that I'd gotten a pedicure earlier in the week with Kurt. "So you have two dads?"

"Yeah, I guess that's how I got this obsession with Broadway."

"Tell me what you do. I mean, I listen. I know that you are in an off-Broadway show and you're rehearsing, but you never told me more than that."

"Well, it's a long story. It starts with my move to Manhattan a few years ago. Kurt had been here for a few years and offered to let me stay in his two-bedroom in the East Village. That offer turned into a couple of years. Kurt was fairly successful on Broadway. I mean, relatively speaking. He'd had a few minor speaking roles, but mostly chorus stuff. Still, on Broadway, that's a pretty amazing feat. When I moved here, I started auditioning, but I couldn't break through. I didn't get a single callback my first year here. I picked up a job at a coffee shop to help Kurt pay the bills. I almost gave up, but he got me a few more auditions and I managed to get some minor off-Broadway work, though I did have to keep up with the coffee shop. A chorus job off-Broadway pays next to nothing. About two months ago, I got a call from a producer I'd worked with on one of my shows. He got me an audition for the lead role. I went in, auditioned, got called back, did another reading and performance, and now I'm lead." The wine was talking. Too much. "What about you? I know how you got those muscles but how'd you get into being a police officer?"

Her eyes turned away, back to my feet. "Long story." The whiskey was not talking.

I leaned forward and ran my hand down her arm, over to the exposed skin of her forearm. She turned back to me, licking her lips. My heart skipped. "Tell me something about you. I just talked your ear off."

"Some other time I'll tell you how I got into it. Guess I'll tell you what I do."

I felt the air slowly escaping my lungs. All I could imagine was Sergeant Lopez in a tight blue uniform shirt, gun holstered at her side, tone restrained and cool, ordering men around. Sergeant Lopez, a trickle of sweat running down her brow as she sped after a criminal. Sergeant Lopez...

"You want me to tell you?"

"Sorry," I felt my cheeks flush and a smile creep onto my face. "Yes, more than anything."

"Well, I work the midday into early night. I'll usually go in around one or so and get a workout in. Shift starts at two. Sit in on a briefing meeting with other sergeants and a fewer higher officers. Brief my squad. Hit the streets."

"Do you wear that uniform?" Seriously, the wine needed to stop talking.

She smiled. Perfect teeth framed by full lips. "Yeah."

"What kinds of things do you do when you 'hit the street'?"

"Well, we have to do a few runs through certain neighborhoods, to make our presence felt. Usually have to respond to calls - domestics and disorderlies mainly."

"Have you ever shot your gun?" I regretted those words as soon as they'd come out of my mouth. The drop in her expression made me regret them even more.

"Yes."

I didn't trust myself to say more. My mouth firmly shut, we sat in silence for a few minutes. Her hands continued to work my feet, but occasionally ran up to my calves and pressed firmly, working their way back down. The heat intensified. I needed a buffer, some way to stop myself (or the wine) from uttering more ridiculous come-ons or asking more prying questions. I swiftly pulled my feet back and tiptoed to my bedside table, grabbing the laptop out of my bag.

"Movie?"

"Sure." She looked so adorable from afar. I'd been too focused on the minute and hadn't taken all of her in. Her white pants brought out the tan on her feet. The blue shirt fit tightly, allowing me to wonder what I'd find if I popped open a button or two. The collar framed her face perfectly. Though she'd caught me staring, the whiskey had dulled her reaction time. It seemed that was the only thing it had dulled.

I set the laptop on the coffeetable, just next to where her feet stretched out. I tucked my feet beneath me and curled into the side of the couch.

"C'mere." I turned and looked at her for what felt like a whole minute. Maybe the whiskey had dulled more than her reaction time. She'd pulled a pillow over top of her lap and patted it. I crawled across the couch and rested my head on the pillow. Within seconds, her fingertips delicately ran through my hair and massaged my scalp. I don't even remember the first scene of the movie.

_Rachel. Rach. Rach._

The credits were running. Santana's eyes were glazed. A strong smell of alcohol whispered off her breath.

"Movie's over."

I looked up at her and blinked a few more times, trying to shake the sleep from my eyes. I was drunk, too.

"Get you to bed. C'mon."

Groggily, I sat up, rubbing my fists over my eyes. She stood and headed toward my bed. My eyes jolted open.

"Just want to make sure this is..." Her voice sounded strained. I followed her and saw her pushing at the fire escape window, double-checking the locks.

She crossed back in front of me to examine the locks on the front door. "Make sure that you lock both of these after I leave. Be right across the hall if you need anything."

Before she could say anything else, I threw my arms around her shoulders and buried my head in the crook of her neck. "Thank you," I whispered against her hot skin. My lips were just millimeters from placing a soft kiss on her pulse point.

Her arms wrapped tightly around me and I could feel her breath in my hair. "Thank you."

I could feel her pulling back. I ran my arms along her back, then shoulders, biceps, and forearms. The heat intensified. "Goodnight, Santana." I needed for her to go.

"Goodnight, Rachel."

In bed, I rolled to my back. The heat that had built through the night had reached its boiling point. I closed my eyes and imagined her strong arms on either side of me, holding herself up. I imagined her face hovering above mine. Soft eyes full of want. Lips moist and on the attack. I imagined her body pressing into mine. My body pushing up to greet hers. Legs wrapping around the small of her back to hold her prone body tight to my own. Everything but her eyes faded away. Soft brown eyes captured me at my most vulnerable and coaxed me into release.

Turning over, I was faced with the fire escape window. In that instant, the buzz of the alcohol faded and my heart sped uncomfortably. I finally found sleep at five in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

"Tomorrow"

I awoke from my dream to find the curtains pulled and the doctor standing over her, chart in hand. I untucked my legs from the chair and stood. The ache worked its way out of my legs, but remained hidden deep inside me.

"Ms. Berry," he continued looking at the chart as he spoke. "We're going to run a few more tests today. We'll be able to give you an idea of her prognosis tomorrow."

"Tomorrow. Ok." I willed tomorrow not to come. In my childhood, "tomorrow" was always associated with the sun coming out and bright red curly hair. In my adolescence, "tomorrow" was a threat, so often associated with yet another day thrown in the dumpster by the jocks or cheerleaders. In my Brooklyn days - our Brooklyn days - "tomorrow" was enough to soften my heart and send jolts between my thighs. Lately, "tomorrow" meant another day of broken promises. If the doctor's "tomorrow" was the same as our "tomorrows," I should pack up my things and leave tonight. Somewhere inside of me, it seems, hope still lives. I tucked my legs up underneath of me, settled into the chair, and dreamed of "tomorrows" past.

...

While my days were consumed with lines and notes and stage directions, my nights - when I struggled to sleep and stared out of the fire escape window - my nights were filled with her. By Wednesday, I struggled with bursting out of my living room and knocking furiously at her door, but I knew that once I saw her eyes, I wouldn't find anything clever to say. I'd be weird Rachel Berry, arisen from high school, ruining romantic opportunities at every step. Scaring potential love interests away with my emotional static cling and knee socks. So I waited. I didn't wait long.

On Thursday night, a crash erupted from her apartment and jolted me from my fire escape dreams. Clad in short gym shorts and a camisole, I tiptoed to the door. Another crash. Broken glass? I rushed to the bedside table and grabbed my phone, then snuck back to the door and quietly twisted at the deadbolt. Another crash. Santana's hoarse voice.

Immediately, I thought of break-ins and robberies. But it was past midnight, past Sargeant Lopez's workshift. And she was a freaking cop, she wouldn't be throwing glasses at a criminal. I'd told her that I could never save her the way that she saved me. Now, I wasn't sure.

I quietly pulled the door open and tiptoed into the hall, phone still in hand. My knock echoed in the hallway. "Santana?" It was less the sound of a whisper and more the sound of fear personified.

Loud footsteps crashed toward the door. I shuffled back to my door, ready to jump inside and turn the deadbolt.

A crack in the threshold. Brown eyes. Weary, glistening brown eyes. Her chest heaved. Her face flushed.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. Everything's ok." A whisper. "Just go to sleep. I'm ok."

I stepped closer, hoping to be invited inside, or offered a hand. She pushed the door so that I could only see one eye. "I'm sorry, Rach. Just go to sleep ok? I'll talk to you tomorrow. Promise." The door closed.

I should have known. At that moment, I should have run for my life. I should have begged Kurt to let me stay at the loft just until I could break my lease and find a new place. Instead, I was even more intrigued. And worse, for some reason I thought maybe I could save her. I wasn't sure of what, but maybe I'd finally be able to repay her.

When I pulled my door shut on Friday morning, a note was taped just beneath the peephole.

_Rachel, _

_I apologize for the noise last night. I'd really like to see you again under better circumstances. I have a regatta tomorrow, if you're around. (Believe it or not, I occasionally present myself to the public in that ridiculous spandex outfit.)_

Harlem River at 10th Ave. 10am.

Santana

My heart jumped and pulled and frayed, not only because of the opportunity to see her again (and in that spandex), but because this was weird, right? Loud noises the night before. She had clearly been upset about something. And now, she wanted me to come up to the Bronx, more than an hour's train ride away, to see her play in her boat?

But, I was able to reason myself out of the oddity of it all - we had barely become friends, I couldn't expect her to bare her soul to me just because I came knocking. And, deep down, it was very clear to me that I wanted to see her again. When my thoughts every night turned to her, why not?

In all my years living in and idolizing New York City, I never thought I'd travel that far up on the 1 line. Almost to the end. The seasons were beginning to change. All along the river reds, oranges and browns clouded my eyes. An early autumn morning.

As the cool breeze whipped along the river, I pulled a sweater on over my tank top, and pushed my rolled-up jeans back down. I laid a blanket on the riverbank and pulled out my latest script notes.

"You made it." Santana stood over me in a navy blue warm up suit, hiding her spandex for the time being. I stood to greet her.

"Hi. Of course I made it. I wouldn't miss the opportunity to make fun of you in that outfit again." I smiled and felt her arms wrap around me and pull me into a hug.

"After my race, I'll join you. There's a social, too, if you're interested."

"Ok, I'll think about it." She started to back away. "Good luck on your race!"

"Thanks! I'll see you in a bit." As she walked away, she pulled off the warm-up jacket, revealing a racerback spandex top and the tanned, toned muscles of her back. Then, she disappeared for the next 45 minutes.

I lost myself in my script and notes. With the show set to open within a few weeks, most of my spare moments were consumed either with the nuances of my character or with thoughts of Sergeant Lopez. Gunshots brought me back to reality. I jumped to my feet, scrambling to grab my notes until I heard cheering and shouts of encouragement. The races had started. The boats in front of me were long and powered by eight women. Not Santana. I collected the scattered sheets of the script and went back to reading.

Almost an hour later, Santana was lined up, oars grazing the water as she waited for the start. I stood on my tip-toes to get a better view. I walked farther away and up a hilly part of the bank until I could distantly see both the start and finish line. She seemed all grace and fluid movement as the oars danced and the boat glided across the water. Once she passed my spot on the hill, it became more difficult to see the lengths between boats, so I just clapped my hands and shouted her name as though she was racing toward first place. I stood atop the hill for about fifteen minutes as they cleared the boats. I looked for Santana docking, or making her way back to the start. After fifteen minutes elapsed with no sign of her, I was back to my blanket and script.

"Hey." I felt the blanket pull as she took a seat next to me. Sweaty hair, in the drying phases, matted to her forehead. A sweaty sheen glistened on her bare arms. She pulled her sweat-pant clad legs to her chest and looked over at me. "Thanks for coming. Sorry you had to see me lose."

"Oh did you lose? It's so hard to see." I smiled and nudged her with my shoulder.

She held my gaze for a moment, then looked out over the water. "There's a reason that short people don't row, but I just can't get enough of it."

"Losing shouldn't stop you from doing something that you love." Our eyes met again. Her brown irises fit perfectly with the reds, oranges, and yellows of the autumn afternoon.

"Yeah. You're right. So the social is down the 1 about fifteen minutes or so. They'll have free drinks and food. Will you come?"

"I'd love to."

"Ok, I'm gonna grab a shower at the boathouse and change. I'll be back in thirty minutes. Wait right here."

When she returned from the boathouse, she was the epitome of rower chic. She wore boat shoes, tight sky blue chinos, and a black polo that popped against her tanned skin. Black-framed glasses set atop her nose and a leather messenger bag slung over her shoulder in place of the ruddy sweat-stained gym bag from the first time I'd met her. This look was certainly a surprise. I'd seen her dressed up before, but I didn't think she would be quite so natural in the preppy look.

"Ready?"

I pushed the blanket into my giant tote bag and stood. "Let's go."

The bar was full of people dressed just like her. She easily fell into conversation with middle-aged men in blue blazers, and young women with pearls weighing down their ears.

I snuck off to the bathroom, only to find three people ahead of me. In line, I glanced in her direction. Her head nodded as she acknowledged the older gentleman in conversation but her eyes were on me. I felt a flush in my face. Looking back up, I caught her eyes again. She took a sip from her tumbler. Over the top of her glass, brown eyes connected with my own. I bit my lip and held her gaze. From afar, she appeared to excuse herself from the conversation and make her way toward me.

"You ok?" In the corridor, there was very little room between us. I could feel the warmth of her body.

"Yeah," I took a step up in the bathroom line. "Just needed to freshen up a bit."

"Ok, I was thinking about grabbing one more drink and then taking you somewhere. Is that ok?"

"Like a surprise?" My heart thudded - at the thought of what was next, at her proximity, at her eyes taking me in.

"Sure, like a surprise. You want another drink before we go?" I took another step in the bathroom line.

"No, I've had enough already." I'd had enough, at least, to have me leaning against the wall outside of the bathroom.

"Ok, by the time you get out, I'll be ready to go." She backed away and toward the bar.

When I got out of the bathroom, she was clinking double shotglasses with three younger gentlemen.

"Ok boys, I'll see you next weekend." She walked toward me. "Ready?" Her arm draped over my shoulder. "Let's go."

The sun was waning in the late afternoon. She dropped her arm from my shoulder, but in the next instant, I felt her sweaty palm clasp against mine. A jolt shot through my synapses. I looked down at our intertwined fingers and up at her.

"Did you have fun today?"

"It was really nice to see you in your zone, so to speak. I didn't realize how much you love rowing. How long have you been doing it?" She tugged my hand as we crossed the street and ventured into Central Park.

"Since I was a little kid, actually."

"Wow, I didn't even know little kids did crew."

"Yeah. Well, it wasn't my choice initially."

"What do you mean?"

"It was a family thing." Her voice hardened. I wasn't sure what 'a family thing' meant either, but I didn't want to push her. My mind thought back to the crashing noises the other night.

"Where are we going?"

"Are you ok with water? Have you been on a boat before?"

I looked into her eyes and tentatively responded. "Yes."

"I wanted to take you out on a boat ride. Is that ok? I'll do all the work."

I laughed and rubbed my thumb over the back of her hand. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to."

I rolled up my jeans and secured the blanket inside my bag as she paid for the rowboat. With the amount of alcohol I'd seen her consume at the bar, her sea legs baffled me. She stepped right into the boat and held out her hand to help me in.

The leaves glowed as the sun set and reflected off of the lake. For a while, the only sounds were the gentle gliding of the oars and the laughter of a few small children from the banks of the lake.

"You're a fantastic rower, Santana." I chuckled. "I don't know how you lost with these skills."

She smiled and looked back at me. "My mind was consumed with the thought of this beautiful girl sitting on the bank waiting for me."

"Oh really? Who? I would have introduced myself." I haven't seen a more genuine and full smile out of her since that day. She smiled so hard she couldn't speak. Her eyes squinted, lashes coming together to hide her irises.

"She must be really beautiful to have you speechless right now."

The smile finally broke into a shy grin. "Yeah, she's a vision."

She rowed us the rest of the way back to shore in silence. Except for a few nervous glances at one another, we gazed out over the lake, watching as the sun's reflection dimmed and the night took over.

When we got back to Brooklyn, we snuck into a bar around the corner to eat greasy food and loosen our nerves from the boat ride. We threw back a few shots, clinking to friendship, beautiful women, and losing and loving it. Every so often, I'd catch her eyes swallowing me whole again. That heat from our last time together had settled in again for the night. In return for her ogling, I'd run my fingers up her arms, squeeze at her bicep, and push at the veins that popped out along her forearm. On the last shot, she grabbed at my hand, pulled it up to her lips and kissed it. Before I knew what had happened, it was done. The moisture of her lips against the back of my hand dried and the heat was at its highest intensity.

"We should go." I was worried about what I might do. I wanted to wrap my fingers around the back of her neck and pull her lips toward mine. I wanted to dance my fingers up her thigh and squeeze until her muscles wouldn't give. I wanted to slide my fingers under the hem of her shirt and feel heat on heat.

"I'm sorry." Her face flushed a degree more. "I shouldn't have done that."

"No," I jumped in before she could say more. "Please don't apologize. We should go before I do something I regret in public."

I could see the lump in her throat as her face flushed one more degree. She threw some cash on the bar and grabbed my hand, pulling me from the barstool with ease.

In the cool night air, the heat from her hand warmed my entire body. I walked ahead of her up the narrow stairs of our building. I could feel her eyes boring into me from behind. My body felt tense.

Once we both were on the landing, I lost myself in her eyes. It could have been ten seconds, it could have been twenty minutes. The alcohol coursing through my body certainly wasn't helping my sense of time or restraint, for that matter.

"Santana," it was barely a whisper and I didn't even realize it was coming out of my mouth.

"Rachel," her voice was shaky. She took a step closer and I could smell the whiskey of the day on her breath and in her sweat.

"I like you, Santana." My forehead pressed against her nose and mouth as I felt her arms wrap around me.

"I like you, too, beautiful girl." I felt her lips press against my forehead in that moment. "I want to take you out, on a real date."

"Really?" I pulled back just enough to see her face but not enough to lose my sense of her. "I mean, yeah, I'd like that. A lot." My college level vocabulary had failed me. I'd probably used the word 'like' five times in the last minute. And the phrase 'a lot' had been abandoned shortly into my high school career. My hand moved from her shoulders to the back of her neck. Delicately, I pulled her face closer toward mine. I licked my lips in anticipation. In a moment, I felt her pull back and I release a shaky breath.

"I want to kiss you so badly," she whispered with her eyes closed and fingers bruising my skin. "But I want to show you how much I appreciate you first. Tomorrow. We'll go on a date tomorrow."

I closed my eyes, too. "Tomorrow." I pulled her closer to me and inhaled deeply. That smell that was becoming Santana's filled my nostrils - a light musk of sweat, clothes fresh from the dryer, and a slight aroma of whiskey. "Tomorrow."


	5. Chapter 5

**Fifth Floor Walk-Up**

"Tomorrows Turning Into Todays."

* * *

"I won't let anything happen to you."

She'd whispered that to me on multiple occasions, the first time on our first date. It wasn't until later that I realized how dearly I'd held on to that phrase.

I knew that when she woke (at this point I couldn't think the opposite, else I might find myself wrapped in my misery at home for weeks on end) she'd never be able to utter that phrase again. She'd broken that promise long ago. I just didn't realize it until three days ago.

...

Tomorrow turned into today. I awoke at six o'clock, eyes opening to the fire escape window, brain switching to Santana. I rolled over and pulled my pillow tight, curling into it and pretending it to be her warm, muscular body.

At ten, a text buzzed in from her.

_8 pm. Date. Dress warm. _

With the opening night of the show so soon, I had to busy myself in rehearsals. Having Santana ten feet away didn't help much for my concentration. I ran through song after song, even calling Kurt and singing into the phone. Halfway through the song list, talk of Santana took over the conversation.

"That police officer who took care of you after the break-in?"

"Yeah, we're going out tonight."

"Wow, I thought that was just a college phase." A silence hung in the air.

"I don't know what it is about her, but she's found this spot in the back of my brain and it won't go away, Kurt. Every time I see her, I have to ball my fists up and bite my tongue so that I don't do anything stupid."

"You haven't done anything yet?"

"I'm still a lady, Kurt."

"Tonight, then?"

"I wouldn't rule it out." I could feel my insides heat up as I thought about the possibility.

I ended the conversation following Kurt's orders to call him as soon as the date was over, regardless of whether it was the evening or the early morning, or even the late morning.

I listened carefully to the building's noises. Slams of doors and the clinking of pipes. A few times I heard Santana's door shut. I pictured her running off to the gym or trekking up to the river, picking up flowers at the grocery store or meeting with a fellow cop for a beer.

At seven I returned to my closet, where I'd already laid out my outfit for the night: a shimmery black dress, royal blue cardigan for the cool fall air, and black pumps.

At eight, my hand shaked as I knocked at her door. My eyes trailed up her body. Black slacks, a white collared shirt peeking out from a black v-neck sweater. Her hair pulled back into a sleek, restrained ponytail.

"Hi."

"Hi."

We stared at each other like teenagers for a moment - me in the hallway, her in the doorway.

"Come in. Please."

She'd cleaned up from the last time I'd been over. Empty bottles had disappeared into the recycling. The bulldog blanket was folded neatly over the back of her leather couch. Sometime in the last few weeks she'd even picked up a few candles. The house smelled like lavender, mixed with the faint scent of Santana.

A pop erupted from behind me. Santana held a bottle of champagne in one hand and two flutes on another.

"Well that's a surprise. What's the occasion?"

She gave a crooked smile. "You don't feel like this is occasion enough? I can put it away."

"No. No. Let's toast!" It may have been a little too eager, but I wanted to make this first date a big deal.

"Ok." She looked at me, waiting for my toast.

"Ok. How about...to tomorrows turning into todays?"

Her smiled warmed me. We clinked glasses and took sips.

"So what's happening on this date, San?"

"Cool your jets, Berry. Enjoy the moment."

I sighed and looked into her eyes, finding that comfortable brown that had already begun to wear on me.

"Sorry. You're off to a great start." We sipped on the champagne in silence, eyes nervously meeting on another every few moments.

"I won't keep you any longer. Let's do this date thing. You're gonna need to take off those shoes though."

My mind raced. What kind of date required a nicely dressed young woman to remove her shoes? "I need to take off my footwear for this date, Santana?" I said, ready to argue.

"Yeah, take 'em off." Her voice nearly growled and I lost the fight in me.

I pulled off my shoes and followed her to her bedroom window, where we found her fire escape. She pushed the window open.

"Up you go."

I turned around. She was right behind me and I felt a sharp intake in breath as I turned directly into her. I tugged at her sweater, my brown eyes searching hers.

"It's ok. Be right behind you. I won't let anything bad happen to you." That first statement stays with me as a truth, even today. I knew it from that moment on that she would always be right behind me. And, she would never let anything bad happen to me, in her mind. My interpretation of that second statement would be the only thing to change as the time passed.

My mouth dropped open when I saw the rooftop. A candlelit table sat in the middle. A trellis suspended over the table, white Christmas lights and ivy intertwined around it. The lights of the city twinkled below us and the waning sunlight gave way to moonlight. She pulled the chair out and seated me. Resting her hands on my shoulders, she leaned down and her breath tickled my ear.

"You haven't said anything yet. Seems unlike you." I could feel her smiling behind me. "Everything ok?"

"Beautiful. This is amazing." Tears welled in my eyes and I was glad to find her busy behind me, hooking up a space heater and spooning food onto a pair of plates.

She placed a plate in front of me and took a seat.

"I thought you said you didn't cook." The tears were disappearing.

"I don't. My buddy came over and helped me make this. I may have just had a few beers while I watched him and told him what you like."

I laughed as I pictured her sitting on her countertop ordering a police officer to make a romantic vegan meal, while she sipped a Miller High Life.

"It's delicious."

"Yeah, he's a pretty good cook."

We ate quietly. Peering from the top of our glasses, our eyes met, then shyly looked away. A few more glasses and we'd stare unabashedly. Her fingers grazed mine as both of us reached for the wine. A jolt shot through me and flushed my face.

"How is your show coming along? Ready for opening day? Is that what they call it on Broadway?"

I smiled. She _would _compare Broadway to baseball. "Close. Opening night. The rehearsals are coming along. We have some work to do, given that I'm new to playing a leading role, at least in New York. I hope it goes smoothly because I'm so looking forward to auditioning for Broadway roles again."

Her fingers ran over mine on the table. My palms tingled beneath her touch.

"Enjoy the moment."

My brain and mouth wanted to finish talking about my Broadway dreams. Her warm voice put them on pause.

"You're right."

"Your hands are cold, you want to go inside?"

"We don't have to just yet. I'm really loving the atmosphere out here. Let's finish the wine and then we can go inside." The wine pushed the next thought right through my brain without filter. "But maybe you could hold me?"

She poured the last drops and stood, her hand never leaving mine. She led me near the ledge and I felt her turn me, guiding me to lean against her as my arms wrapped around hers. Her soft breath warmed my neck, yet still sent shivers through my body.

"It's beautiful," I whispered, the bright lights of Manhattan peeking over the Brooklyn rooftops.

I felt her lips graze my neck. "Yeah, it is."

I closed my eyes and lost myself in her warmth. We sipped the last of our wine and my body felt warm both inside and out.

"Let's go inside."

She blew out the candles and went down just ahead of me, holding my pumps in one hand, ready to steady me at any instant.

I sat down on her couch as she poured herself two fingers of whiskey. When she first asked me to pour her a "finger of whiskey" I thought maybe I'd one of the measurements in math class. Soon, a "finger of whiskey" became second nature in my pouring habits.

She crashed down on the couch, body slumping against the same sofa I'd first seen in her apartment following the burglary. I pulled my legs up then slid them behind her and beckoned her to come closer. "Come lie down. Let me run my fingers through your hair."

Tonight, like most times I'd seen her in the past, her hair was fixed at the back of her head in a ponytail with a part along the side. As she settled her head into my thighs, I pulled at the band and let it free. Her eyes closed and she nestled her head deeper. I pushed my fingers through, massaging her scalp, then found myself tracing the soft, downy hair that rested on her hairline. Dark, full eyelashes fluttered open for an instant, catching my eyes, then closed.

"Tell me something about you."

"Mmm. What do you mean?"

"Well, I just want to know more about you. How you became you, you know?" My hands moved to a stop at her brow.

"I don't know. What do you want to know, Rachel?"

The hair on my arms prickled up as she questioned me. My heartbeat quickened and I began thinking about the Santana who barely cracked the door for me when I heard shattered glass late one night.

She must have read me, felt my heartbeat, seen the flesh of my arms raise. "Ask me something," she whispered, tone soft again, relaxed. "I don't usually talk about myself, so I don't know what you want to know."

I let out a few shaky breaths. I wanted so badly to know everything about her. Where was she from? Was she as rough and demanding as a child as she was today? Why did she decide to be a police officer? What scared her? I thought back to what I knew about her life as a police officer. She was a sergeant. She had some sort of afternoon to late evening duty. She worked out at the station. She'd shot her gun before. No, I couldn't ask that question. I scanned my brain for something safer. Rowing, perhaps?

"Um, okay." I looked down at her face - dark lashes shading her closed eyes, tongue grazing over pink lips, cheeks flushed from a combination of the night's cool air and her post-dinner whiskey. "You said...you said that you got into rowing because it was a family thing?" My voice inflected at the end, a tribute to Daddy's midwestern roots. I'd tried desperately not to pick it up. Now, it usually came out when I was tired, or I'd been drinking, or both.

"Yeah. My dad rowed at Yale. Thought it was a good idea to get me in a boat from a young age." She huffed the next sentence. "Wanted me to be appealing to Yale, too, I guess."

"Wow, your father went to Yale? That's a phenomenal school." While her eyes were closed, I continued to brush my hands through her hair and occasionally twirl at the soft hair near her hairline. I also took as much time as I could to study her unguarded face. It was such a rare opportunity, like seeing an eclipse.

"Mom went there, too."

"Is that where they met?" Our voices were so soft and halting, I could hear her kitchen sink drip into dirty dishes every other second.

Her brow furrowed, then her eyes met mine. She sat up and I knew instantly that the conversation was over. I added another to the list - no guns, no family talk, or maybe just no mom talk.

She stood and poured herself another drink. "Want a sip?"

I didn't want a sip, but I wanted to feel numb. I wanted to rescind my question and take away whatever tore away at her inside. I assented. It was the closest I could get to feeling numb, and it might let me - us - reconnect.

When she came back from the kitchen, she set the glass down on the bare wood of the floor and climbed atop my prone body, our thighs intertwining. Although I could feel her body on top of me, the only thing I could think about was her eyes looking right through me and her lips pressing closer and closer. I licked my lips and lifted my jaw. Soft. Delicate. Breath-taking. Rachel Berry doesn't do speechless, and she surely does not do breathless. Her eyes opened to mine and my breath disappeared all over again.

In college, I'd kissed a few women, but only drunk and usually in the presence of others. It was never about sexual urges. This was.

She kissed me again and I found my body heating up and up and up, pushing into hers. Her hips pressed into me and I couldn't speak, breathe, or think now. Occasionally a thought registered - as my nails brushed the back of her neck and she gasped into my mouth, as my teeth gently nipped her bottom lip and she ground her pelvis into me, as my leg hooked around hers and she growled into my neck. Each separate action registered in my brain and I stored it for later.

Desperately I grasped at her, but I could feel her pulling back. Dilated pupils and a flushed face stared down at me. I leaned up, attempting to catch her lips again, but to no avail. She laughed off my want.

"Rachel," her forehead rested against mine now, her breath whispering across my lips. So close. "I want to do this right. I don't think we should do this tonight."

I closed my eyes and exhaled. Just as the oxygen was starting to fill my lungs, it disappeared again. How could I possibly wait longer? How could she just shut her body down like that? What did "doing this right" mean? And, would she be thinking about me later, just as I would be thinking about her? The last thought subconsciously brought my heated center up to meet hers once again.

She raised her body off of mine and stood, pulling me up with her.

"Thank you for a wonderful night, Rachel."

I still couldn't respond. My heart thudded. My brain had moved past overload and into shutdown mode. Her lips softly pressed against mine, feather light.

My feet moved me to the door, then out and into my shower. My thoughts clouded with her, like fog from the shower. Her face, her gasp into my mouth, the deperate grind of her hips, the want in her eyes. Even after I gave into my body's urges, I stared out the fire escape window thinking only of her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Fifth Floor Walk - Up**

"Broken"

Despite my attempts to piece her together, she's broken. Before opening night, I wouldn't have described her as such. Perhaps "tormented." After opening night though - "broken." She rarely let her pieces show, but every once in a while, a piece would come crashing to the ground, nearly shattering as it hit. I'd always been able to pick up that piece. It was right there for me and it was just a single piece. The other pieces stayed concealed. Not long after I'd pick up the first piece, another would come tumbling down, ready for me to pick up.

Sickly, all I can think about right now is that old Humpty Dumpty nursery rhyme. A great fall three days ago. Now, all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty together again.

Opening night, she let the first piece fall. And I was grateful.

...

I had a busy week ahead and she knew it. Sunday quickly turned into Monday, and once Monday started, my week was crashing toward Saturday night - opening night. I didn't see her at all. On Tuesday morning, she texted me. Something about changing her shift so she could come see me on Saturday night.

Looking back at it, I didn't want her to come. I never said it, and it only registered as the briefest of thoughts in my mind then. Had I told her outright not to come, dealing with what was to come later may have been easier. It wouldn't have changed anything, but it might have made things easier in her mind. My mind, too, I suppose.

On Thursday morning, I slipped an opening night ticket under her door with a note.

_I can't wait to see you in the audience. Kurt and Blaine are sitting next to you. _

_xoxo, _

_Rachel_

I sealed the note with a lipgloss kiss - still the same high-school Rachel Berry when it came to romance.

Friday night was the last big rehearsal before a short walk-through on Saturday. We were in full costume, full makeup, playing as though the audience was right in front of us. By the time I changed and wiped the make-up off of my face, my hands were trembling in anticipation.

I struggled to fall asleep. I'd started to get used to the unnerving feeling of looking at the fire escape window. These days, sleep was coming easier. Not tonight. Not with opening night coming around the next dream. At one o'clock, a text message buzzed me out of my mental walkthroughs. Santana.

_Awake?_

I tapped out an affirmative. Within a minute, a soft knock echoed through the moonlit apartment.

She stood at my door in her NYPD sweats and a Yale t-shirt, brown eyes softly looking into mine. Warmth washed over me.

"Hi."

"Hi." I said shyly, looking up at her.

"I had to see you. It's been too long."

"I'm glad you came over. Do you..." I bit my bottom lip. My fingers played with the hem of my oversize t-shirt. "Do you want to come in?"

She looked at the floor and slowly shook her head. Her bare toes, peeking out from under the tattered legs of her gray sweats, tapped nervously against the wood floor of the hallway. "No, but..." Her eyes met mine again. "but I want to tell you good luck. You know, since I'm not gonna see you 'til after the show tomorrow."

"Thanks." I pulled her fingers into my own and caught her eyes.

"And I want to kiss you." Her eyes darted between my eyes and my lips. A velvety pink tongue slipped out to wet her lips as she leaned close to me. She smelled like Santanta. Her warm breath danced across my lips. My lips melded into hers, softly at first. She pulled her hand from mine and cupped my cheek, deepening the kiss. She tasted like traces of the night's whiskey and toothpaste. I was lost in her.

Slowly, she pulled away, resting her forehead against mine, staring back into my eyes. "Goodnight, Rachel. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight Santana."

According to Kurt, the show. was. phenomenal. He would have put all of those unnecessary periods in there, too. I had almost forgotten the rush of playing lead on a stage. In the opening act, the lights blinded me and the audience caved in on top of me. Rachel Barbra Berry shone through by the second act. It was natural. I'm a natural. By the applause of the encore, I could feel a positive review in the _Times_and a Broadway producer's call on the horizon.

Backstage, I exchanged congratulations with the cast while I toned down the stage makeup and sipped hot tea to soothe my voice. Flowers and cards poured into my dressing room. Everything felt perfect. Everything felt right.

I heard Kurt and Blaine before I saw them - squealing in hallway and calling my name.

"Rachel! Oh. My. God." Again with the unnecessary periods.

Kurt enveloped me in a bone-crushing hug, then Blaine, too.

"You guys! Thank you so much for being here today. You don't know how much it means to me."

"Rachel you were outstanding. Really, just outstanding. Blaine, tell her she was outstanding." Kurt's cheeks were flushed with excitement.

"You were outstanding..." Blaine dutifully repeated, though I knew he believed it, too.

"So amazing Rachel." True to form, Kurt cut him off and continued gushing. "The final scene, where you're singing and looking into his eyes. I was bawling hysterically. It was magical."

"You think so?"

"Know so. Yes. I swear if you don't have a producer knocking down your door in a month, I've lost all faith in Broadway. Though I already began to lose faith when Kristen was robbed of that Tony in 2007. But I believe my faith will be restored when _you_are the next headliner!"

"Calm yourself Kurt," Blaine chimed in, ever the voice of reason. "Really, Rachel, you were amazing."

"You guys are going to make me cry. Thank you so much." I felt the tears spring forth to my eyes, but I staved them off. Stage makeup and tears weren't going to ruin the post-show celebrations.

Until that moment, I hadn't really thought of her. Silence numbed the room. I puzzled over what could have taken her so long to come backstage.

"Wasn't Santana with you guys?"

"Oh. No. We thought maybe she wasn't coming or something. That seat next to me was empty all night." Blaine's brow furrowed in confusion.

I pulled my phone from its hiding spot in my purse. Maybe she'd called. Nothing. I took an unsteady breath. In. Out. I could feel my face twisting into a wretched sob. No. No. No. I could never string together a truly perfect moment. If my vocal performance was amazing, then a wardrobe malfunction embarrassed me in front of everyone. If a kiss was soft and sweet, then the sex was terribly awkward and uncomfortable. With my luck, I should have known that my "perfect" performance would be followed up by something miserable like this.

"Oh, Rachel," Kurt pulled me into a softer hug. My mascara ran down the front of his designer vest as I heaved into him, garbling my sobs and cries of self-pity.

I felt Blaine's hand against my back, his voice soothing me. "Rachel. Don't let this ruin such an amazing night. The after-party is going to have champagne and lots of beautiful people. And you guys barely know each other. There'll be other fish."

The after-party wouldn't smell of whiskey and toothpaste. No one would have those warm brown eyes that melted me or made my heart leap. I was disgusting myself. Rachel Berry had always been strong before in the face of relationship woes.

"Fine. Let's go." I was resolved to drink until I couldn't feel anything.

Five shots. I think. Rachel Berry doesn't do shots. One thing Rachel Berry does do is talk in the third person when she gets angry. And when she gets drunk _and angry_she talks in the third person all the time.

I don't remember a good chunk of the afterparty. At one in the morning, Kurt and Blaine had determined that I'd sobered enough to push me into a cab with forty dollars and directions to Brooklyn. Most of the ride, I stared out the window at the rush of bright lights headed toward me.

She was sitting against my door with her head between her knees, knees pulled up to her chest, arms shielding her head. The top half of the buttons on her blue uniform shirt were popped open revealing a sweat-stained white undershirt. A mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat by her side. I took a few moments to look her over. She hadn't heard me come in. A rage built inside me the longer I looked. I hated the time she chose to spend on perfecting her body. I hated the boys' club that the uniform stood for. I hated the alcohol that constantly lingered on her breath. Most of all, I hated that I didn't know her motivation behind any of it. My own lack of sobriety fueled the rage, perhaps even ignited it. I was too consumed with my rage to assess it.

"Get out." This was a stage voice. The voice I heard was a stage voice. It belonged to a character I'd played. It wasn't Rachel Berry. "Go away."

She raised her head slowly. Her yellowed undershirt transluscent with tears, skin ashen, eyes unfocused and red. The hair that I so often found slicked back into a ponytail was messy, loosened from its restaint.

"I'm sorry." There was a new quiet to her voice. "Please."

"You woke me up in the middle of the night, you kissed me, you made me feel so good about myself - so sure - and then you embarrassed me tonight. I waited for you. My friends waited for you. At the after-party, I spent more time crying than celebrating."

"I couldn't come..."

"I don't care about your excuses," my voice raised as I cut her off. The tears wouldn't come. They'd already come. The Rachel Berry who'd been hurt by lovers past took to the spotlight. All of the things I wished I'd said to Jesse, Finn, and my other exboyfriends rushed through my inebriated mind.

"Please, Rachel. Listen to me." I know that by anyone else's account, we'd just met, but when I heard her plead from the hallway floor, I could just sense that Santana Lopez did not beg. A police sergeant did not beg. Tonight, she was begging. I had to listen. (As it turns out, this would hold pretty true. Despite my wishes to the contrary, this was the only time Santana Lopez ever begged me for anything.)

"What?" I listened, but the anger still raged inside me.

"One of my guys died." A hollow silence followed.

My eyes washed from anger to empathy in an instant. My mouth dropped open and my heart sped. I felt on the verge of throwing up. Santana Lopez had rendered me speechless again, but for another reason entirely. I didn't want to be speechless, yet I was frozen.

She had found a spot on the floor to blankly stare.

"My buddy Jake. He was shot." She continued to stare. Her mouth moved on autopilot. "I got called. I had to go. But I...I just watched him die. I couldn't do anything." Her body started to convulse as she buried her head between her knees again.

I guess the nuturing instinct I may have gotten from a mother never came to me. It didn't quite feel natural, but in my party dress and heels, I dropped to my knees in front of her and pulled her sweaty head awkwardly into me. My face sunk into her hair and I held her, shaking with her as sobs wracked through her body. I don't know when my tears came, but when I pulled my head back, a steady stream had run down my face.

"Come inside," I whispered against her forehead. "Come inside with me tonight." I pressed a delicate kiss against the wrinkle in her brow and stood, pulling her silently with me.

She took the last gulps from the bottle next to her and followed me into my room like a lost child. I sat her on the bed and pulled her collared shirt off, unbuckled her belt, and helped her step out of the legs of her slacks, then pulled the sheets back and urged her into bed.

When I returned from the bathroom, she was tucked beneath my flowered white sheets - a picture I'd carried in my head since I'd met her, yet under entirely different, happier circumstances.

Clad in just a t-shirt and underwear myself, I pulled her head into my chest, stroking her hair and placing a few tentative kisses along her hairline. Back in reality, her arms wrapped tightly around my stomach and squeezed the breath out of me.

"He was the guy who convinced me to be a cop. Met him when I moved down here." Her voice was small. "His mom...she died, too, at about the same age as mine. In high school."

I couldn't breathe. If I moved, she'd stop. I knew it. My hands stilled, my breath got shallow.

"We talked about it. He convinced me that becoming a cop would help me deal with some of that stuff." I felt her sour breath rush across my hand. "Don't think he's been right. I dont know."

She looked up into my face now. She wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning, I just knew it. Her eyes were too blurry, too red and the whiskey smell was too strong.

"Tomorrow's his funeral Rach. Why tomorrow?" She looked at me for an answer.

"I don't know, baby." I reached out and ran two fingers over her cheekbone.

"Why?" Her face began to twist into a sob.

"Maybe ... I don't know ... maybe he's Jewish, San. Within twenty-four hours."

"Yeah but why?"

"Shhh shhh shhh." Her head pressed against my chest again, I ran my fingers through her hair, hoping her body would calm. "Relax baby. Stop thinking so much."

"Have to wear my dress uniform tomorrow. Needs to be ironed. Starched." I could feel her struggle against sleep.

"Santana, go to sleep. I'll help you tomorrow morning." I pressed one last kiss to her forehead.

When I knew she was asleep, I cried. Harder than I'd cried when I found out she hadn't made it to opening night. Harder than I'd cried when my first boyfriend betrayed me and egged me in the high school parking lot. Harder than I'd cried when I didn't get into Tisch. Her pain consumed me.

I woke in the morning to Santana twitching against me. A bad dream. Nightmare. Reality. I couldn't tell. I cupped her cheek and whispered louder and louder until her eyelids opened. Her eyes were still glassy and red, like she had never slept.

"Go get your uniform and bring it over for me."

A few minutes later she was in my shower and I was standing over a white collared shirt, starching and ironing. She emerged with a fresh white undershirt, white boxer-briefs, and her wet hair pulled back in a low bun. She pulled on her pants and buttoned her shirt while I finished steaming her formal blue jacket.

I wrapped the tie around her neck and struggled not to get lost in her sad eyes as I tied it into knot. When I finished, I allowed myself a moment's respite in her eyes.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come last night."

"Oh, San." Tears welled in an instant. "You were exactly where you needed to be last night. Please don't think about that."

She pulled the blue jacket on as I grabbed the handful of medals to fasten to the pocket.

"Santana." My eyes fixed on one. Daddy had served in the Gulf War. And his father had served in Vietnam. I didn't know much about police officers, but I knew this medal.

"A year ago," she said quietly, taking it from my hands.

My face pressed against the purple heart as I hugged her close, breathing her in.

When the door shut behind her, I found myself sinking to the floor, tears streaming down my face.


	7. Chapter 7

"Fifth Floor Walk-Up"

**A Role to Play**

How do you walk away from someone who's in so much pain? For months this thought wouldn't register, even in the slightest. When it did begin to click, I battled within myself. Was walking away even an option? I'd fallen for her from the moment I saw her.

...

She called me that night from the back of a police car. Not in the bad way. A "buddy" (she always called them "buddies" like she it was some sort of fraternity) had given her and another sergeant a ride home after their post-funeral rounds at the bar. The call roused me from my dream-state, to which I'd dozed after a fitful night and the rush of the day's matinee show.

"Rach? I come over?"

Her voice was so soft I could hear the "buddy" conversation at the front of the car.

She came straight to my apartment, stripped off her jacket, loosened the tie the rest of the way. Her collared shirt had come untucked at some point in the night. The whole ordeal took about ten minutes. By the time she threw herself onto the couch, her pants sagged at her hips for lack of a belt and her undershirt stuck to her tanned midsection. She may have come from a funeral earlier in the day. She may have cried herself to sleep the night before. My mind could _not_break from thinking about running my hands underneath the electric white of her shirt and squeezing her body tightly.

I set my book aside so she could put her head into my lap. This was fast becoming my favorite ritual - stroking fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp, twirling the feathery hair near her hairline, teasing her eyes into submission.

For a moment, my mind lingered on the many Santanas I'd encountered. Not long ago, I feared asking too personal a question. I'd made checklists of problematic topics - no mother, no family, no cop-talk. As I attempted to gauge appropriate conversation fodder, I settled on asking straight out. We'd talked about all of the no-fly-zone topics in the last twenty-four hours and they'd only seemed to make me feel closer to her. They'd also served to drive her into my bed and arms at night.

My newfound confidence in selecting conversation topics didn't stop the hitch in my breath and shaky whisper as I spoke. "Tell me about today."

She let time pass and I didn't think she was going to answer me. Her breathing was steady and her eyes closed, like she'd fallen into an intoxicated sleep.

"Didn't do the typical full protocol line-of-duty funeral because it happened so soon. Would have liked to see him get all the cars and sirens and other districts out there. The chaplain came out to conduct the service. Had a lot of nice things to say about him." Where did her subjects go when she drank? An English teacher would have had a fit with her.

"It sounds like an honorable service."

"Was, yeah."

"Where have you guys been since the funeral?"

"Flanagan's. One of the police bars by the precinct. We do a sort of second funeral there. Toasted to his life, family, kids. Brother came out with us for a while, too."

"How are you?" I looked down to find her eyes closed, lashes fluttering minutely against my sleep shirt.

"Fine. I'm ok."

"You sure?"

"If I say I'm ok, I'm ok."

My breath caught in my throat. Conversation over. Point Santana. My fingers continued to run through her hair, lulling us both into sleep.

"Sorry."

"It's ok." I leaned down to kiss the crown of her head.

"Rachel?"

"Santana?"

"I'm sorry for how much I hurt you last night," her eyes were open but it seemed like she refused to look at me. I wanted to dip my fingers under her chin and pull her face up toward mine. "I wanted to be there so badly."

I did pull her face up toward mine to talk to her. I knew she wouldn't do it for me, but I had to for her. "Stop, Santana. I told you not to worry about it. I know why you weren't there. You did the right thing. You never hurt me on purpose."

"I just keep thinking about it. I said I would never let anything happen to you and then I did."

"Really, San. Please don't."

"I know I can't make up for it, but I want to come see you in your play. Maybe Saturday night?"

"Of course. We can go out and have a drink afterwards. I'll take _you_on a little date this time." I smiled into her hair and kissed her lower this time, lips meeting the top of her forehead. "And it's called a musical when there's singing in it." I added a little pinch on her side. It wasn't easy to find a bit of skin to grab between my thumb and index finger. She twitched back, then smiled back up at me and I felt my hips twitch a little.

"Tell me about opening night."

"What?" I hadn't thought to share recently. The last twenty-four hours had been about Santana with good reason. When she asked about me, I almost felt inapproriate sharing my own thoughts. Almost. Rachel Berry doesn't pass up many speaking parts.

"Well, it was amazing. It was everything I hoped it might be. The theater was at capacity, people were in their seats early. I could hear the rush and excitement before the first act even began. There was just this feeling. I can't describe it. Can you believe that? I'm at a loss for descriptors."

I heard a throaty chuckle from beneath me. She rolled off my lap and rested her head in her elbow, eyes trained on me. The moonlight from the kitchen window lit her face. A faint sheen of sweat dabbled across her forehead and the bridge of her nose.

"The performance itself was over before it began. It literally felt like I was on stage for a few minutes. And the applause at the end - Santana - the applause just blew me away. I felt tears in my eyes. People were throwing roses on stage, yelling 'Brava.' It was straight out of one of my high school fairy tales."

"You deserve it, Rach. You've worked so hard."

How could a police officer - someone who had sworn to give their life to protect regular citizens like me - look at me with such admiration? Suddenly, my mouth froze. I met her eyes. I fell into them. Her mouth was on mine. Kissing me. Her hand on my cheek. Soothing me. Somehow, my body was on hers. Straddling her. My brain clicked on painfully as she pulled back.

"If I don't have you soon, I think I'm going to explode." It all came out in one embarrassing breath.

"Explode? I can only think of good things that come with that word." The heat that had been gradually building inside me shot straight to my core and echoed through her in turn.

"I suppose if you helped me, it would be a good thing." I felt my face turn a shade redder. Hormones had raged out of control and taken over my language functions.

"Yeah, I'd like to help you with that." With every counter, she grinned devilishly.

"Santana." I hissed through gritted teeth, pressing my weight down into her.

"Rachel." She was teasing me. I didn't care. It was the most delicious tease. "What did you have in mind?"

"You and me between some flowered sheets?" Her fingers were creeping up my thigh. Her eyes were trained on it, as though a big mystery hid beneath the length of my long t-shirt.

I cupped her cheek and pulled her face to meet my eyes. Without a word, her lips crashed into mine. She stood suddenly. She was so strong. One hundred twenty pounds of exhausted girl flattening her into a worn couch and without effort she had my legs wrapped around her midsection, her biceps taut as she supported my lower body, and she kept kissing me, breath harsh, nipping at my lower lip, tongue fighting for domination.

We crashed against the bed and without thought she tossed me down. Her pupils, buried in chocolate irises, became more dark and hazy. I leaned back on my arms, legs spread wide, revealing what I'm sure was an embarassing wet spot on my underwear. I didn't care. Winded pants filled the room. I couldn't tell if it was from me or from her, or maybe both. Once again, I found myself lost in lust around her.

She pulled her shirt off. Everything popped - abs, delts, tris, bis. If I'd ever listened to my trainer, I'd be able to name the rest, and with their ridiculous abbreviated names. Lo, a gym rat, I was not. But in this instant (and many, _many_others) I appreciated that she was.

My eyes fixed on her abs. I scooted to the edge of the bed and let my legs dangle, pulling her standing form between them. My cheek met the hard, taut skin of her stomach. She was breathing fast. I reached my hand out to trace the contours and valleys as my cheek remained in place. I craved skin on skin contact. One valley seemed particularly out of place, not in line with the rest of her abdominal muscles. I opened my eyes and pulled back, tracing my fingers over it again and again. Her hand on my own startled me out of my haze. I met her eyes. They were sad again.

"Oh, Santana, I'm so sorry. This was a terrible idea." I was so ashamed. My mind flashed to the purple heart medal I fastened on her pocket that morning. She'd attended her friend's funeral earlier in the day. She'd cried herself to sleep last night. I threw myself back on the bed and buried my face in my pillow.

The bed dipped next to me and her fingers were in my hair. "You found my scar. It just reminded me...of yesterday and everything."

I turned to see her, still without a shirt on, sitting on the edge of my bed. Eyes still sad.

"Rachel, I want you. Tonight's not good."

"I know. I should have known. I'm such an idiot."

"Stop. I wanted it just as much. A little more time."

"I can do that. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Nothing to be sorry for. I'm gonna go take a shower and get changed. How about we watch a movie? Something funny."

"I would love to."

She was back in thirty minutes, that soft vintage Yale shirt clinging to her torso and her NYPD sweats slung low on her hips and bagging at her ankles.

I nestled into her body as she leaned up against my headboard, my head on her chest, hand creeping up the inside of her shirt to rest on her abs. I found her scar, but restained myself. I didn't want to bring back any more memories for the night.

My giggles and her throaty laughter filled the air as we watched the latest mockumentary. It felt like any other night. It felt like our future.

As the credits rolled, she tilted my face to look into her eyes. "Rachel." She audibly exhaled. "Can I spend the night?"

I knew it wouldn't be the type of night I wanted it to be with our sweaty limbs wrapped in my sheets, but I couldn't resist. I ran my fingers through jet black locks and twirled the soft, downy hair on her hairline as her breath stilled. When she could feel my warmth, but didn't have to look into my eyes, she let her guard down.

"You were right, Jake was Jewish. That's why it was today."

I remembered taking a psychology class in college. Somehow, my ears perked up when the professor mentioned some sort of technique that involved just listened. According to him, it would illicit more information out of a patient because by human nature people dislike the sound of silence. I rarely considered it, since I so infrequently found space for silence, but in this moment I kept quiet, hoping for more. She needed catharsis.

"I didn't cry. I haven't been able to cry at a funeral since she died. I can't believe it's been ten years."

I felt tears brim to my eyes. Before I could catch myself, it had already escaped in a whisper, "Please tell me about her."

I could feel her swallow hard against my chest. "Her name was Sophia Lopez. Beautiful. My father always said we had the same eyes."

"She must have been gorgeous."

She let out a barely audible laugh. "She was a writer. Though no one would have known it. She was always ferrying me and my brothers around to meets and practices and events. She'd be at the starting line of every single one of my races and somehow I'd always catch a glance of her at the end. I never knew how she did it. Three days a week she volunteered at the local museum as a docent and two days a week she volunteered at my father's hospital."

"She sounds like a wonderful person." I left it at that. No more prying. She must have been emotionally spent, going from carefully controlling her public persona like a PR firm in one week, to releasing streams of information in weakened gushes just days later.

Those were the last words in the air that night as she wilted down the headboard and curled into me, nestling into my body. Late at night, Sergeant Lopez tucked into me, off-Broadway soon-to-be star Rachel Berry, for warmth and strength.

I was playing a role. Rachel Berry, the strong, controlled lover I was not. This character had either emerged from the depths of my soul or I was learning it as I was going. Either way, I didn't think I'd be able to play it for long.


	8. Chapter 8

_Fifth Floor Walk-Up_

**Body Infinite, Mind Asunder. **

Her body was infinite and her mind was torn asunder. It took a few months to even begin the realization of what was going on, but I had come to the conclusion that those words were the perfect summary of her. _Her body was infinite and her mind torn asunder. _She'd taken the time to craft a perfect, infinite body. A surface that left me stunned. A fixed, emotionless face, a strong tightened jaw tightened, a rigid, taut body. I'd always been aware of her infinite body. It took me much, much longer to realize that her mind was torn asunder. She was right in front of me, hooked up to tubes and monitors and machines, and yet still, her body was infinite. Others may not have realized it, but at this point in our relationship, I'd come to realize her mind was so far torn asunder that it now threatened everything.

On the rarest of occasion, I'd get her in what I'd eventually termed a stage _beyond infinite - _when her brain and her body aligned somehow. When everything was clear and her actions matched up with her words which matched up with her life events.

(Now if you're a math nerd, please spare me. Blaine has already gone on and on about how it's not mathematically possible. Well, Santana's also not mathematically possible. So, shut up.)

Opening night she was beyond infinite. The day of Jake's funeral she was beyond infinite. On the true ten year anniversary of Sophia Lopez she was beyond infinite (and beyond and beyond). The night after I'd let slip the biggest insult of my life, she was beyond infinite (infinitely). Three nights ago, she was beyond infinite (and had to be rescued as a result). In all of our time together, I can count the occasions on a single hand.

...

Being an off-Broadway star was exhausting. So exhausting that I wasn't sure how I was going to handle being an on-Broadway star. It would happen, I knew, but through pure talent and adrenaline. Though we were dark on Monday, I studied tape like some sort of professional athlete. I read reviews. I rehearsed lines and facial expressions. I debriefed with Kurt for hours. He'd come to at least one show a week and we'd taken to talking until the bar down the street from the theater forced us out and we were too lazy or drunk to take the subway home.

Tuesday through Friday ran through like a blur. Daily dress rehearsals to iron out the kinks. Nightly shows to rousing applause. After parties with wine constantly flowing and stage make-up smudging in the heat of the dressing rooms.

Friday night I decided to skip the party. I was in bed by midnight. My mind, as it did every night that week in bed, turned to Santana. She had texted me earlier in the night. Just one word: _tomorrow_. And oh, how I was looking forward to tomorrow. We'd been in touch through the week, texting, emailing, even talking on the phone once as we were both on our commute to work. After nearly a week out of physical contact, she'd seemed to emotionally retreat back into herself. Our conversations revolved around the daily schedule of events rather than meaningful catharsis. I was hoping to emotionally reconnect and maybe - _finally_- physically connect.

On Saturday night, I arrived to the theater an hour earlier than I needed to. I couldn't stand hanging around the house thinking about her any more. She could have been right across the hall, pacing just as I was. Thinking about me as I was thinking about her. Just as I was about to rush out and knock on her door, my own restraint won out and I removed myself from the perilous situation. At the theater I could rehearse a bit more and speak to castmates, rather than lose myself in thoughts of her warm skin and strong jaw.

The show seemed like any other show. I knew as a professional that it must feel like any other show. Except that she was somewhere in the audience. It never really slipped my mind. Some moments I think I may have fallen a bit out of character as I swept a side-eye into the audience to get a glimpse of her.

When she didn't knock on my dressing room door immediately after the show, I could feel my stomach drop. A knock perked my ears up and sent my heart racing. My co-star's head popped through the door, ready to share a quick toast to another successful night.

"Rachel, let's chin-chin to show numero siete. Cheers!" Johnny, all drama even off-stage.

"We're on our way to Broadway!" We clinked glasses and took a gulp.

"I won't keep you too long, there's a nervous-looking girl standing outside your door with some flowers."

I almost lost my drink as I jumped to my feet. "There is?"

"You are an eager little beaver-eater, aren't you honey?"

"Oh my goodness, please don't ever say that again, Johnny." Beneath all of the makeup, my face was impossibly flushed.

"Sorry, Rachel, but get a grip. Or get some. I'm gonna go. Good luck tonight." He winked back at me as he opened the door.

Just beyond the threshold, I saw Santana standing in the darkness of the backstage hallway, her face illuminated with the light from my dressing room. Her foot tapped against the ceramic tile. Her fingers gripped the bouquet of flowers, white-knuckled. She had on those black-rimmed glasses again. The glare of the light hit in such a way that I couldn't make out her eyes clearly. My autumn afternoon. My heart pounded.

She looked up just as the light from the door flooded into the hallway. I could feel the muscles in my stomach clench and I took my bottom lip between my teeth.

"Hi," my voice was a hoarse whisper. I stood in the doorway, taking her in. While I was wrapped up in a post-show monogrammed robe, she had a brown leather bomber jacket slung over her shoulder, a white v-neck t-shirt and dark blue jeans with bright tennis shoes.

"Hi." She turned to face me and stood in place for a moment. If she'd been a man and I'd been Gloria Steinem, I might have slammed the door in her face. Her eyes leered over me, on me, into me. But she's not a man, and I'm certainly not Gloria Steinem. I licked my lips at her lingering stare and felt that much more sure that tonight would be the night.

She finally broke her gaze and seemed to realize she'd been caught in her ogling. She shuffled toward the dressing room door and nervously pushed an assortment of orchids in my direction. "These are for you."

"Come in, Santana. They're beautiful, thank you." I took the flowers from her and gently set them on the tabletop of the vanity. When I turned back to her, she was close. Her body heat warmed me. I found her eyes immediately and fell in.

"Rachel, that was amazing. I..."

I'm a sucker for praise. I'm especially a sucker for all praise related to talent and my ability to perform on Broadway. My lips were on hers before she could say more. I suddenly felt the heat of every single one of our past encouters spring to life within me. My fingers pulled her into me, caressing the back of her neck and her cheeks. I dipped back into my catalog of memories and pulled our first exploratory make-out session to mind. Nails on the back of her neck. Her lips parted as she gasped into my lips. My tongue escaped into her mouth, hopefully - G-d please - hopefully conveying the message. If I didn't have her tonight, I was going to explode.

When I pulled back, her cheeks were thoroughly flushed, her lips slightly swollen, her breath shallow.

"Amazing." She whispered, finishing her sentence. I'm positive that that "amazing" was not about my on-stage performance.

"Let me get changed and we'll have our 'little' date. Ok?" I turned away from her but glanced back with what I hoped was my most seductive gaze as I continued my way over to the wardrobe.

"Yep. Did you want me to leave the room?" I turned back from my wardrobe to find her ogling my bare calves beneath the robe.

"Not really, but I guess it's part of the proper decorum." I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth at the last word.

"I'll be just outside." I could have sworn in the moment that her voice cracked a bit, but thinking about it now, I doubt it. As always, Santana was the picture of restraint, even in her moments of weakness.

Honestly, I'd hoped for a little more flirtatious sparring. I thought I'd left the door open, but perhaps not. The other day, in my bedroom, she'd fueled the fire more with her words than anything else. Though she'd also been three sheets to the wind after drinking through the day with her 'buddies.'

My fingers fumbled with the zipper to my jeans. Via text message earlier in the day, we'd decided on doing something 'low-key' after the show. In my mind, 'low-key' meant 'let's get back to my apartment quicker, because that's where I really want to be.' I'm not sure that fully came through to her, but I was of a single mind to make it happen. I pulled on my boots and pulled a loose sweater over my head, bracing myself for a cool Manhattan fall night.

I took a deep breath and gave G-d a quick, silent prayer before opening the door.

"Hi." The shyness returned.

"Where to, boss?" The warmth of her hand shot through me. Our fingers intertwined. Her palm was sweaty.

"I was thinking we could go to that little bar around the corner from the apartment. Remember we went there after your regatta that one night?"

"Let's do it."

We walked to the subway station, replaying the night's show and rehashing the week's events. I held her hand in the pocket of my sweater, gripping it tighter at each excited gush of energy. She told me about resettling back at the station, her week's worth of workouts, the frequent trips to Flanagan's after the shift ended. I pictured her freezing on the river in her little spandex suit as she recounted the morning's rowing workout. Pretty soon, she said, she'd be shifting to something called "erging." I was lost in the lingo and lost in the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips before she spoke.

When we reached the bar, we took seats at a dark table in the corner. She threw her jacket over the back of her chair and walked to the counter to order drinks. I was surprised to see her return to the table without a pair of shots or overloaded with drinks. One pink-looking drink, ostensibly for me, and a double of whiskey, naturally for her.

"I hope this is ok. I know you don't like whiskey." She smiled and met my eyes.

"Looks yummy." I hadn't even bothered to look back down at the drink.

"Well I want to toast to you tonight." She held her drink out to me as I raised my own glass. "Rachel, you're an amazing actress. I'm so happy that I finally got to see you perform. Here's to Broadway."

"Thank you, Santana." I could feel a blush settle in as we clinked glasses and took a few tentative sips.

We continued to talk about the week. Santana drank at about twice the speed that I drank, though it never showed. When she sat down with her fourth glass and my second, we had finally managed to delve into some more intimate territory.

"I thought about you a lot this week, Santana." I had been planning that line as she stood at the bar. It was open-ended enough to be interpreted in a number of ways.

"Yeah?" Not the reaction I was looking for. I wanted her to interpret it, not for me to have to explain it. I nodded, hoping that she would continue. "I thought about you a lot this week, too, Rachel." Her right eyebrow raised and she gave what I can only describe as a _cute_little grin that turned up the left side of her mouth.

Well, I was going to have to steer the conversation to safer territory for the time being. "I worried about whether you'd be okay on your own. You were shattered on Saturday night and Sunday morning."

She broke eye contact. I wanted to acknowledge what had happened last weekend. Now, I wasn't sure that I'd picked the right time. The picture of restraint.

"Yeah." She finally exhaled. "Thank you for taking care of me. I'm sorry I was so unguarded. It's not like me."

I reached out for her hand over the table top, clenching it in my own. "Don't ever be sorry for that."

I hadn't recognized it yet - that difference between _body infinite_ and _beyond infinite_. It would take a little while for it to come to fruition for me, but this may have been the first time that it appeared on my radar. She had admitted to being unguarded. She had _apologize_for her restraint. For the longest time, I wanted to figure out why? Why be so ashamed of being unguarded?

She nodded and rubbed her thumb over the back of my hand, draining the last few sips of her drink. For a few long moments we looked into one another's eyes.

When she returned from the bar with her fifth double of whiskey, I realized that I couldn't hold back any longer. My mind, slightly cloudy with alcohol pictured her, face flushed, eyes fluttering closed above me, strong arms framing my body atop flowered sheets. I bit my lower lip and put on my most alluring expression.

"I need you tonight." It came out in a shaky whisper. It was like one of those bad lines from the porns my first boyfriend used to make me watch with him in hopes that I would somehow get turned on and want into his pants ASAP. But it seemed apt. Somehow. I wasn't drunk. Buzzed, yes. But drunk, no. Well, on alcohol at least. I would easily be able to support the argument that from the moment I met Santana I was drunk on lust.

She leaned closer to me and I could smell the whiskey on her breath. "I plan on having you tonight." It could have been another bad line from a porn. Except it made my insides churn and arousal cascade to the surface.

I'd come to realize that a line like that was so very Santana. _I plan on having you tonight_.

She was restraint. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips were wet, her fingers danced across my thigh, and yet, she was restrained. Her body was infinite. Hard, soft, hot, cool. Everything I needed. Her mind, torn asunder. Physically, so sexy and free. Mentally, full restraint. Nothing like her body.

I was losing my mind. Sweat dripped down my back. That wouldn't bode well for ripping off my top later. My mind raced and I'm sure I made stupid, open-mouthed faces thinking about what was to come.

She silently paid the check, all business. Her eyes looked back to me from the bar. She wasn't cold. She wasn't absent of emotion. But she was guarded. Restrained.

When she pressed her body against me as I opened my front door, her breath tickled my ear, her tongue tasted the salt of my neck, her teeth sunk into my shoulder. And yet, restraint. Precision. Not a misstep yet. Was she just practiced?

I'm not sure how else to describe it. The pads of her fingers touched every inch of my body. Her tongue traced liquid hot paths across my neck, over my peaked nipples, down the valley of my abdomen. Cosmopolitan lights reflected the sweat covering her brow, dropping once to wet my lips. It tasted like Santana - sweat and whiskey and the faintest aroma of dryer sheets. Her hair bristled against my neck as she moved against me, tickling me.

She was restraint. I swore her arms would give out. Her back would spasm. Her body would fade. My nails clawed at her biceps, scarring her, marking her with raised red welts. My thighs gripped around her hips, pulling her impossibly closer (yet still so far away). Her body, her mind, kept her hovering. Always hovering and just out of reach. Body infinite.

She teased and teased and teased, like it was second nature and all I wanted was release. I pulled her closer still.

_Please_. I begged. She groaned into my neck as I felt her work against me, push against the hand buried between us. Our eyes met. Once. Our eyes met once. It was as though she knew exactly when to look at me. Exactly when to make the barest of most deep of connections. Was she still guarded? Or had her mind finally connected with the actions of her body?

My head tilted back and my eyes closed of their own will. My lungs sucked in air, fighting for oxygen. A perfect mezzo soprano A flat echoed through the bedroom. Another. C sharp. I couldn't force my eyes to open. If I had, the connection would have been spiritual. She would have been beyond infinite. That's if her eyes were still on me. The actions of her mind and body ripped apart.

Instead, she was body infinite, mind asunder.

My mind had turned off. Clammy skin met in awkward places. Cold sweat tickled my neck. Warm breath permeated my pores. The weight of her body felt heavier than the world. I reached up to stroke the back of her neck. My lips brushed against the crown of her head.

I've always been good with articulating my feelings. But she was restrained and I couldn't describe it. I defaulted to _infinite_ because it was a compliment. _Asunder _would break her. Had it fully registered then, it would have broken me, too.

"I'll never sing again if it's always that magnificent."

She hoisted herself above me, strong arms on either side of my shoulders, breasts pressed against my own. Body still infinite. "Hate to ruin your Broadway dreams."

"I think it might be worth it." Her eyes met mine, read me, consumed me.

Heavy pants filled the air. I could feel her mind churning.

"You were staring into his eyes - costar's - in that last song and all I could think about was 'She look into my eyes like that?'" Dilated pupils danced from one eye to the other, to my lips and back. The alcohol must be wearing off. "But then tonight happened and I know. If you looked into his eyes like you look into mine, I'd have run onstage and punched him."

Lovers past had never cared. At least that's what clicked in that moment. They had never cared about the way I looked at anyone else. They'd never studied it. Even onstage. Even as I'd kissed my co-stars for all the eyes of the world to see. What thoughts spun through her mind as she watched me on stage?

"As much as I like the scent of jealousy on you, Santana, fear not, he's gay as can be."

We shared a laugh, as she lowered herself back down on top of me. Sweat and arousal dried and clung to our bodies. The thick smell of sex lingered in the air. Her arms fell to my sides, her head on my chest, her legs intertwined with mine. The weight of her body heavier than the weight of the world.

Her body was infinite and her mind was torn asunder. At the time, it didn't matter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Fifth Floor Walk-Up**

"Possession"

...

"Body infinite. Mind torn asunder." It's not the easiest to understand, but I don't know how else to describe it. Like I said before, I'm precise with my vocabulary. Santana threw everything off. She was an enigma. That's what I loved about her. I'd get a fleeting glance beneath her defenses when she'd be "beyond infinite" and that drug fueled me until the next opportunity presented itself. I'd play the role of detective and her backstory was my perp. (She would be completely and utterly embarrassed by that civilian analogy, but I can't bring myself to search for a more apropos analogy as I look upon her bandaged, swollen face.)

Gradually, of course, she became less of an enigma. While she will always fit into that "body infinite, mind torn asunder" description, I came to understand what threw her into the "beyond infinite" phase.

Three days ago, the remaining shrouds of mystery gave way to a huddled, tired, shamed, shell of a body - now turned to a damaged shell at that. I shouldered the blame. Had it not been for me, Santana would not be in this sterile room.

I suppose that's why I'm still sitting here, rolling back and forth over the memories we created, set frozen in my mind.

...

Nearly a month passed. In that time, in the absence of a more refined vocabulary, Santana continued to be "body infinite, mind torn asunder." And I loved it. A rock hard, sexy, expertly maintained body? Check. A mind that shielded most feelings and problems? Well, at the beginning of a relationship, I'll give that a check, too.

Most days and early evenings, I was completely occupied by work. The show had reviewed well and advanced sales of tickets skyrocketed. After the review by the _Times_, we sold out advance shows for two months. Once a week, a new bouquet of flowers wafted through my dressing room, always with a simple note:

_To the beautiful girl that waited for me on the banks of the Harlem River, _

_You were a vision that day and every day after. _

_S_

(Now, dear reader, don't mistake this for feelings. This is just par for the course in a Rachel Berry relationship. A lover's gotta give me a little sugar.)

Nearly every night was consumed with Santana. With each encounter, her muscles seemed more defined and pliant; her lips more red and swollen; her fingers more dextrous and knowing. Her eyes - for that one flitting moment at the peak of all things worldy and on the verge of the religious - read my soul then washed away. Only in that instant did we truly know one another. She'd fall asleep, fingers tightly gripping my hip, pelvis pressed to my backside. I'd awake only to a lingering smell.

"Erging." That bizarre word she'd first mentioned almost a month ago. Our mornings together were lost to something she called "erging." Some rowing thing. Indoors. Whatever it was, it was the reason I never woke in her arms. Really, now that I think about it, "erging" was just another word for escape. Around me, she had two synonyms for escape: drink and rowing.

Erging left me with many a morning free - most often to peruse the Broadway variety magazines in search of the perfect role.

A phone call startled me from my morning ritual. I set down my cup of coffee and the magazine and reached for the phone. Kurt.

"Hi gorge!" He certainly was giddy for eight o'clock in the morning.

"Hello my dear!" Kurt's feelings usually fed my own, this morning was no exception.

"So I just read the _Times_ review!" his voice shrilled before I heard Blaine in the background calming him. It was that deep, lilting Ku-u-u-rt whine that would just drive me crazy if I were Kurt.

"It's amazing, isn't it? I was just looking in one of the trade mags at some of the shows that they're producing. I'm waffling between a lead role as a down-on-her luck country girl, just moving to the big city or a supporting role as a goofy, klutzy, nerdy, know-it-all friend of the lead. I probably can't audition for both and continue my current role, it would take away too much of my time, so I think I'll have to pick one." As I waited for a response, I heard Kurt whispering to Blaine in the background.

"Kurt? Did you hear me?"

"Sorry, Rach. Look, let's be honest, you haven't had much success auditioning for lead roles for Broadway shows." This again.

"Yet." Daddy always did like to say, 'Never say never, just say not yet.'

"Right. Yet. So if you want to break in to Broadway, maybe you should go for the supporting role, or even chorus."

"I am no longer chorus material, Kurt. Didn't you read the review?" I'm sure he had a point somewhere, but I was beyond listening to his advice.

"Well you have to get your start somewhere." Kurt always did do a good job of bringing me back to reality. "Anyway, I didn't call to talk about your Broadway future - though the supporting role, definitely. I saw the _Times_ review and Blaine and I just thought we should take you out to celebrate." I could hear Blaine hurrah-ing in the background. "And we want to spend some time with that delicious ladyfriend of yours. If things are going to be serious, she has to meet your two gay husbands. Maybe we could all go out?"

The thought of bringing Santana around my two best friends - the only men (besides Dad and Daddy) who had protected me and looked out for me in my life - made my brain hurt. I worried that they'd see all of the bad things about Santana without seeing any of the good. She would never give them an opportunity to get below the surface like she did for me.

Those thoughts should have stopped me that night. There's a reason that I've been sitting alone in this hospital room for the past few days. There's a reason I haven't even talked to Kurt on the phone lately. It started that night, I'm sure of it.

"That's a great plan! Santana is off tonight and tomorrow morning, and the show should be over at around 11. I'd love to celebrate with everyone." It's just, I wanted for everything to come together at once. That's how it's supposed to happen, isn't it? It's like in _The Music Man _when Marian the Librarian admits she loves Harold Hill and the band comes marching in and everyone decides that they can forgive Harold and just love him. It was all supposed to come together for me in that moment.

"Great! What do you say we meet at our place and have a toast, then hit a dance club in the Village?"

"Ok. One thing, though." I wanted to set Kurt up with some lowered expectations. He'd never found any of my past lovers adequate, maybe because I'd talked them up so much that when he met them, he could never see what I saw. "Santana is relatively reserved. I mean, you met her on the day that I moved in, she was quiet then and she's probably going to be just as quiet now."

"Ok, well we'll keep that in mind. I'll put Blaine on the case. He's going to be much more delicate than I will at getting her to talk." His cackle made goosebumps rise on my arms.

Setting plans with Santana was easier than expected. To be honest, I'd been so nervous about showing her off that I hadn't ever made plans to do so. Almost every night that we'd spend together, we'd just go out to a quiet restaurant or bar and then come home and fold into one another's arms. My vivacious friends didn't seem to be a good match for her personality, so I decided to keep the two separate. Plus, she'd never introduced me to any of the "buddies," so I'd just assumed that perhaps the feeling was mutual.

She picked me up at the theater just before eleven. She must have known the things her outfits did to me. She had on the black-rimmed glasses and the leather bomber, along with a white v-neck t-shirt and straight leg dark blue denim. I wanted to cancel the whole evening and lock us in my dressing room. It looked like she was thinking about the same. Her eyes were slightly glassy. As I took a step closer to her, I noticed her pupils were dilated - either the beginnings of a drunken haze, lust, or a combination of the two. The cleavage peeking from the top of my tight blue dress and my upper thigh showing from the bottom were probably at least a slight cause of the dilation. And if they weren't, a girl can dream, can't she?

"You gonna cover up?" She stepped in and kissed me before I could answer. Definitely both - lust and liquor, a Santana combination. Her mouth tasted like whiskey and tobacco.

"Were you smoking?" A scold was at the tip of my tongue.

"Went out with a couple of the rowing guys for dinner and drinks. Cover up Rach, it's cold outside and I don't want any guys staring at you."

I leaned closer to her, my lips skimming across the lobe of her ear. "It's just that you make me so hot, Santana." I kissed just behind her ear and pulled back, turning around to grab my jacket. Bending over the chair to grab it proved to be a risque decision. Warm hands rested on my backside, then took a pinch and nearly toppled me over the chair. Graceful, I was not.

"Santana," I scolded, pushing myself off the chair. I heard her throaty laughter from behind.

"Couldn't resist. Let's just go home, babe. I wanna fuck you." Her voice was low and scratchy from the alcohol and cigars. I felt myself heat up all over.

"Watch your filthy mouth, Santana" I whispered as I stepped nearer, pulling my coat on. "Later," I said with a wink as I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door.

She sat across the aisle from me on the train. No talking. About halfway through the ride, I tore my eyes away from the window and snuck a shy look in her direction. Her eyes were trained on me - my legs, my thighs exposed just below the hem of the dress, my neck, my face; and back down to start all over again. By the time the ten minute ride was over, I was sure that her sultry gazes had thoroughly soiled my underwear. Uncomfortably, we made our way to Kurt's, her hands and eyes wandering as we went.

Just before we went inside, I decided to give her a pep talk. "Santana," she stepped close and pressed her lips to my forehead. I whispered into her neck. "It really means a lot that you're meeting Kurt and Blaine. They're my two best friends in the world and they can pry a little at times, and be catty, but they mean well. I just want so badly for you to like them and for them to like you. Please, please let me know if something's going wrong so that we can fix it. I want you to like them so badly."

"Relax, Rachel." She pulled her lips back and grabbed my hands, looking down at our intertwining fingers rather than in my eyes. "I want this, too."

Kurt and Blaine were fancy as can be - Kurt with one of his embellished kilts, Blaine with a dashing patterned shirt and bowtie combination. Their attire matched their interior decoration and taste for alcohol. We toasted to success in life and love and took seats in what Kurt liked to call "the drawing room." (Please keep in mind that Kurt was a minor Broadway actor and had a flair for the dramatic.)

As Kurt and I blathered about Broadway and the Tonys, I tuned in occasionally to Santana's and Blaine's quiet conversation by the fireplace.

"So you're a police officer?"

"Yeah." Typical Santana. But Blaine was a nice guy, he wouldn't mind doing a little interrogating (yes, being clever does run in the family).

"That's great. My uncle was a police officer back in Ohio. Where at?"

"Sergeant with a precinct in Brooklyn."

"Wow. That must be dangerous." I wanted to interrupt the conversation and remind Blaine that Williamsburg was also a part of Brooklyn. Stereotyping jerk. But then Kurt would definitely know I wasn't listening to his rant about some guy who had stolen his rouge? concealer? to do his stage makeup.

"Yeah."

"Is it much like what we see on Law and Order? I love that show. I think Kurt actually auditioned for them once."

"No."

"Ok. Well. Um, what's something you do in your freetime?"

"Rachel. Earth to Rachel" I had tuned Kurt's ramblings out only to find Santana and Blaine digging themselves a hole there in the corner. Thank goodness I had Kurt occupied. Or had Kurt occupied.

"Sorry, Kurt. Are you guys about ready to go out?" I practically shouted across the room just in time. "I'm loose enough for some dancing!"

"Yeah," Blaine burst in a little too eagerly. "I was thinking we'd go to The Grand. It's new. A mix of all sorts, so it should be interesting."

The Grand was surely interesting. It was like a disastrous melting pot of drunk gay people and drunk straight people grinding on one another. To be honest, it rather disgusted me. Kurt's pep kept me from turning around and heading back out the door. I looked back at the bar to find Santana's face glazed over. She'd had a drink in her hand pretty consistently during her conversation with Blaine. If she was even slightly more sober, she'd have probably taken one look or even one smell of the place and turned around, too. Instead, she set up camp with Blaine by the bar. While Kurt and I danced the night away, Blaine and Santana seemed to be getting chummy, albeit with the help of alcohol. I could deal with that.

At around 1:30am, I found myself pretty sweat-laden and quite woozy from the alcohol. Kurt had long ago lost himself in the crowd. I kept an eye occasionally fixed on their camp out spot at the bar, giving myself some security. A sweaty body pushed into me from behind. I turned to give Kurt a playful shove, only to find a handsome twenty-something stumbling and holding his hand out toward me.

"No thank you," I yelled. My eyes shot to Santana's spot. Her eyes squinted in my direction, keen on what was happening. (Or keen as they could be.)

His hand remained in place. "I said, no thank you," I enunciated it loudly this time. I saw his head bob and his body sway back through the crowd.

A few moments later, he was back. Pushing his body into me from behind. I turned back toward him.

She didn't even say a word. Her arm cocked back and the next thing I knew, the guy was on the floor and Blaine was pushing Santana toward the door. Kurt swooped in an instant later, hurriedly gushing "We have to go. We have to go" again and again and again. My coat - the same coat Santana insisted that I wear to deter the wandering eyes of strange men - took up permanent residence at that coat check.

In the chilly, damp Manhattan night, taxis rushed by and a blue light flashed out front. Santana stood by the cop car, talking heatedly with someone. Kurt was buzzing in my ear, but I only caught about half of what he said. My ears split in different directions.

"...go home with us..." Kurt's voice played in one ear.

"...he kept on..." Santana's in the other.

"...really Rachel, it's ok..." Kurt.

"...a mistake, I know, but...my badge..." Santana.

"...let her cool off, talk to her tomorrow..." Kurt.

"No Kurt, I'm not going to just leave her." Alcohol. It was a rare moment in the life of Rachel Berry that she'd stand up to Kurt with such intensity. "No. We're going home together. I'm not going to just leave her here."

"She punched that guy. You could have gotten hurt." He was at a near-shrill pitch. His singing voice would be shot tomorrow morning and he'd definitely blame me for it.

"She did it for _me_. You're ruining her for me just like you ruined everyone else for me. Just stop and let me be happy." Sp maybe I was releasing a little pent-up rage at Kurt. Seriously though, how was every single one of my romantic choices "so terrible" (his words, not mine)? My singing voice would be shot the next morning, too.

I barely noticed that her conversation with the police officer had ended and she was putting her badge back in her pocket. Her eyes flicked up from the curb to meet mine, then back down again.

"Whatever, Rachel. Goodnight." Blaine mouthed an _I'm sorry_ to the both of us as they turned and walked away. I could only watch their backs and wonder in an alcohol-induced dramatic rage whether or not I'd ever talk to Kurt again.

I felt her hand on my elbow, then her jacket around my shoulders. "Going home, c'mon." Too tired for the train, I assumed, she hailed a taxi and we took an expensive ride back to Brooklyn.

Streetlights and headlights blurred into one streaming metropolitan confusion. Her voice was low and angry.

"Coulda come and got me, you know? You like it when guys dance like that with you?" She said with a leer.

"We're not going to do this in a cab," I shot back.

She huffed and turned back to look out the window. My mind turned over and over as I thought about the night I'd heard bottles crashing against our shared apartment wall. Was this what was truly inside of Santana? What caused this rage to bubble to the surface?

We finally spoke again as her hand was on her doorknob and mine on my own at the top of the fifth floor landing.

"Didn't want him on you, Rachel. Cause you're my girlfriend and I need to protect you from people like that."

I studied her for a moment, willing it to come out of her mouth again.

"What?" She was confused. I was staring.

"You called me your girlfriend."

"Well, you are, right?" She looked a little nervous, like some of the alcohol was wearing itself off. Though at the rate she'd been drinking, it couldn't possibly be dry until the sun rose in the morning.

"Yes, of course, Santana. But baby, I don't need you to protect me. I know you saw me tell him to go away..."

"But he didn't Rach," she was flustered, her cheeks hot and tone intensifying. "Had to do something. You're my girl. Guys can't treat you like that."

"Baby," I walked toward her and cupped her flushed cheek and forced her to look into my eyes. Brown on brown. Her pupils were even more dilated than earlier in the night. "You put yourself in enough jeopardy every day as a part of your job. I told you, if anything went wrong tonight to let me know."

"Fine." I think the eye contact was wearing her thin. "I'm sorry." As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she broke eye contact and pulled my fingers into her own.

She spent a few minutes running her fingers over my knuckles as we stood outside of our apartments.

"Stay the night, Santana." My whisper was lower than I'd expected. Heated. Something about her jealousy and strength and possession had me on edge.

"Bought that thing we talked about. Gonna use it tonight."

We'd talked about using a strap-on before. She'd mentioned on one of her drunker nights that she enjoyed wearing them. I may have mentioned on one of my drunker nights that she'd be so sexy thrusting inside of me.

We were drunk. We were possessed. I was possessed. I was a girlfriend now. A girlfriend who was in need of protection, possession. She was possessing me.

I laughed a little when I saw it dangling between her muscled thighs, but my smile quickly righted itself when her eyes burned back at me.

She didn't say much that night except for a few heated, in-the-moment exchanges. She was in control.

"Over."

I turned back to see her, concentration written all of her face. She lined up the strap-on. My legs began to shake. I felt queasy. Slowly. Slowly. It pushed inside of me. My arms gave and my face hit the pillow. Her hands gripped roughly at my hips, steadying them. I felt her hips flush against my backside, then slowly pull away. Flush. Away. Flush. Away. She began to move faster. I could feel myself clench around her, willing her to stay, pulling her in and never letting go. Flush. But she'd always disappear. Away.

Flush. _Please. Stay. _Away.

My body moved of its own volition, back arching to create a rhythm. Her sweaty palms pulled us together like magnets.

At the height of our previous sexual encounters, I'd always found her eyes. She was behind me and I was sure I wouldn't come without seeing into her. Sweat dripped off of her body and onto my back. The sheets stuck to my knees and the pillow to my face as I rocked into it unwillingly again and again. The headboard clapped against the wall, drowning out my tenuous moans. Reddened skin slapped against reddened skin.

"Come with me."

Her hips thrust harder. I turned my cheek to rest against the pillow and struggled to open my eyes, hoping to find hers and let go. Instead I found her eyes clenched shut, the veins in her neck and forehead popping out as she thrust harder and harder into me.

"Santana. Please." I said between gasps. "Let me see you."

Her movements stopped. My hips continued to thrust back as if working under their own power.

"Turn over." I felt her pull out of me. I felt empty. I felt lost. I felt her hands guide me to turn over. I couldn't move on my own.

Using just one strong arm, she held her body above mine as she lined up the strap-on once again. The sheets beneath me were sticky and damp with sweat. Slowly, her other arm ran up my body and pinched at my nipple. I hadn't kissed her yet. I just realized. I pulled my hands up from her back to push her face into mine. Instead of a kiss, I found myself gasping into her mouth as she thrust into me. Her tongue swiped out and into my mouth, then down my neck, up to my ear, down to my chest. Body infinite. My legs lifted and wrapped around her lower back, pushing her deeper inside of me. She couldn't pull back so far and her hips began to work in short, staccato bursts.

I felt my body loose, shaking and ready to burst. I forced my eyes open. There they were, her eyes, looking at me. Not into me. At me. Possessing me. Mind asunder. I felt my heart stop and my eyes roll back into my head. She let out a low moan, only to be drowned out by my animalistic wail as I released what was inside of me. My whole body shook from deep within.

I woke in the morning. A note on the bed.

_Called in to work a double. Again tomorrow night? _

Tomorrow. My body ached in pain and anticipation. Tomorrow.


End file.
